


In the Still of the Night

by CallMeElle



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Abbie is really struggling in this fic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt Abbie, Lots of angsty smut, POV Abbie, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2020-05-26 16:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeElle/pseuds/CallMeElle
Summary: “Are you sure?” he asks.“As sure as I am about anything,” she tells him, which is to say: no, she’s not. But then he whispers, “Abigail,”  and the sound of her name on his tongue is fire. It is flames that shoot up in her belly and heats her from the inside.Updated 5/25- III.ii Chapter 6- III.iii Chapter 7





	1. I.i

She only goes to him at night.

She isn’t quite sure she understands what she’s doing. Well, no, that’s wrong. She _knows_ she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She only knows what she feels at night, before she crawls into his bed: pain. It’s suffocating, the pain. So is the loneliness that follows her like a shadow, and she thinks that he abates that feeling, if just for a little while.

When the sun shines, she allows herself to ignore it. She gets to put on her clothes--standard issue black pants, a top that doesn’t cling to her, a nice fitted blazer complete with badge and gun--and, for a while, she doesn’t have to think about anything. During the daylight hours, she is pure instinct. She is split second decisions in the face of danger, calm in the midst of chaos, protector of the innocents. She is Agent Abigail Mills.

She follows a routine and that makes it simpler. Mornings are dedicated to rushed showers, these just to clean the sweat caused by nights spent twisting and turning in her sheets, attempting to ward off nightmares. She inhales coffee by the pot and eats what her roommate makes for her because he knows that, otherwise, she might not ever eat. Then, she goes to work and deals in kidnappings and murders and overdoses at the hand of mob based drug dealers. Often, she also has to listen to a few of her male coworkers talk down to her as if she doesn’t know what she’s doing, as if she hasn’t made her way up the line on her hard work, on her knowledge, on her recorded ability to do her fucking job. But, she digresses.

After work, and that time varies, she eats take out from her favorite diner or leftovers from her roommate's dinners before standing for way too long under the hot spray of her shower. And then, she climbs into bed and prays for sleep.

That is when the sadness creeps in, the reminder that she is alone. She thinks of who she’s lost, counting them on her fingers like she’s taking a tally: her father, her mother, Corbin, Jenny. It becomes a weight pressing on her chest, tied sheets around her neck, a vise gripping her heart. She knows she isn’t the only one who has experienced tragedy. In her job, she deals strictly in such misfortunes, but that doesn’t change much when it’s another day and she’s going home by herself, when the days pass and she speaks to few others besides those she works with, when Christmas comes around and she’s bingeing Supernatural _again_ because she’s got nowhere else to go. 

It wasn’t always that way and she wishes for those beloved moments again, when she could call Jenny to tell her about some sexist thing she experienced at work. They would commiserate and Jenny would volunteer to make a house visit and Abbie would laugh and explain that, no, her title as FBI agent would not keep her out of jail. She thinks of weekends at the park with her mom, holding hands as she tried to guess at the flower names when they would traipse through the meadows. Time with her dad is a little fuzzier; he died when she was only 6. Still, she can recall the way he smelled, a little like mint and something darker, spicier. His laugh was loud, like hers when she finds something _really_ funny and she likes that they had that in common, that their laughs could light up a room. 

The memories drown her and she tries to keep the pleasant top of mind, so that she can try to rest. Still, no matter how much she tries _not t_ o think of it, of them, they’re always there, nagging at her, pursuing her, standing over her shoulder, desolation clinging to her like a second skin.

Crane is in the background of it all, her roommate: tall and kind and solid. She hasn’t known him long and they aren’t especially close. He is more of a friend to her supervisory agent, Frank Irving. A year ago, he and his wife called it quits and, with no where else to go, Abbie offered him her spare bedroom. She likes that he is there. He is a college professor and, in that, seems a lot more dependable that anyone she knows currently. He keeps to himself mostly and, more often than not, she only sees him in passing. 

He’s a little eccentric and maybe a bit of a dork. He wears sweater vests and printed pants and has wavy hair that is always in a sort of disarray because he is forever running his hands through it. (For that, Abbie can’t blame him because she’s always thought it looked soft and wonders herself, _only late late at night she’ll admit it,_ what his hair might feel like beneath her fingertips.) He’s from Britain or Scotland or somewhere and his accent--deep, lilting--adds to the quirkiness. It’s more endearing than not: the way he goes off on tangents about, she doesn’t know what, _America;_ and how his ties have things like American flags and books and muffins on them; and how he calls her Miss Mills, always with a cute little grin on his exceptionally good-looking face.

He is _nice_ , though. It isn’t something overly expressed and she’s sure he doesn’t quite go out of his way to do anything for her, but the thoughts and actions are there. If they happen to be in the same space around the house--lounging on the couch, game nights with Irving and his wife--he’s sure to engage her in conversation and asks questions about her. He somehow knows to steer away from family, but he wonders about her job and past cases, her joys and dislikes, and he actually seems to be interested. He gets up even earlier than she does, and when he cooks breakfast, he makes enough so that she can eat too. There are even nights that he cooks dinner, and he is always sure to leave a covered plate for her on the stove. Abbie is supremely grateful for that.

Unwittingly, they’ve been getting to know one another on the one night a week she has off and he decides to spend extended time with her: Sunday. It has become a part of her routine, a part she didn’t realize she needed until she no longer had it.

She lounges, on Sunday mornings; she sleeps in until 9 or later when the smell of coffee wakes her up. Crane is there with breakfast, eggs and bacon and toast, and they eat together, mumbling pleasantries over their coffee mugs. After, she cleans dishes while he goes off to plan his lessons and then she washes her hair. That is an entire process and she recalls the first time he’d seen her with her curls as she was in the middle of her moisturizing and styling routine. He’d called the style “fetching” and she’d maybe preened a little bit. She won't acknowledge that, though.

They eat dinner together and then they settle onto the couch to watch Netflix. Currently, it’s a marathon of _Tiny House Hunters_. In this time, they get to be themselves, learning about each other through commentary on the show. He teeters on the preposterousness of living in such a small space and the practicality of it for some. She just likes to see people make homes out of what seems like impossible circumstances. 

They talk too. Never about anything _extremely_ substantial, but they talk. On more boring episodes, they share small pieces of their lives, tidbits of information that they don’t even realize makes them grow closer. They exchange stories of years past: Abbie’s start on the police force, how Crane refused a prominent position with a British intelligence service because he wanted to be a college professor instead. They discuss favorites. Abbie loves cookies and cream ice cream, authentic Jamaican food, and smutty romance novels. Crane is more of a chocolate lover and enjoys the Harry Potter series like any other red-blood Millennial (though she was surprised by that fact) and the beach late at night.

He knows that she’s had a bad week when she brings out red wine on Sunday nights instead of white, how the full-bodied warmth of a glass of merlot goes a lot further in comfort that the Chardonnay she likes when she just wants to have a good time. She recognizes which books he reads when he’s in what mood: C.S. Lewis when he’s happy; Wordsworth when he’s feeling melancholy. She knows that his family consists of his parents and two younger sisters; he knows that she has no family.

Maybe it is this time that has made her comfortable. Maybe it is here, when they exchange pleasantries and laugh and smile at each other over cheap wine, that he becomes _more_ than just her roommate. It’s a metamorphosis, she thinks, his transformation from mere person to the epitome of comfort. It makes his eyes somehow bluer, the color warm like the rocky Atlantic in the spring. It makes his voice deeper, a baritone she feels deep in her belly. When she falls asleep on Sunday nights and her head is against his shoulders, it is _he_ who wakes her for bed, though she knows right there against him, she could sleep for hours more, without the nightmares that plague her. Maybe it is in this time, _with him,_ that she thinks she might be okay.

************

The first time is a late night, on the anniversary of Jenny’s death. It’s a Friday, and she is sitting on the couch, a lowball glass of whiskey in her hands. She _hates_ whiskey, but it’s what Crane has on hand. There is music playing, Erykah Badu is crooning, _can i get a window seat; don’t need nobody, next to me,_ and she is staring at a picture of her and Jenny. In the picture, Jenny is graduating from high school and twenty one year old Abbie is looking down at her, a huge grin on her face. Abbie remembers that day vividly: the early June warmth, the deep sense of pride she’d felt. It was just the two of them by then, sisters together forever. She laughs humorlessly at that thought. 

When Crane walks into the house, she is still there on the couch, staring at that photo, and she supposes that there is something _sad_ about her staring at the photo and drinking whiskey by the glass. She’s pleasantly drunk by this point, and she looks up at him and smiles. Sometimes, she is a giddy drunk, other times she is thoughtful. Tonight she is emotional, up and down and spiraling and she just needs comfort. Crane provides that.

“Abbie,” he says as he hurries over, his long legs carrying him to her quickly. She looks at him through the slight liquor-induced haze. Abbie has always recognized that Crane is an attractive man. It sometimes gets lost in the rambling monologues and his strange love for tea, but she knows that he is good looking. And maybe it’s the alcohol, though she doubts it, but he looks _really_ good tonight. His black trousers taper to his long legs and fit him cleanly, the muscles in his thighs straining against the fabric. His dress shirt is gray and it stretches across broad shoulders. Crane is a skinny thing, but he is firm and more muscular than people give him credit for and it shows in how his clothes fit to him. 

When he eases onto the sofa only a few inches away from her, she can smell the fresh scent of his cologne, crisp, like sandalwood. She inhales deeply, liking the way his smell calms her.

“Are you alright?” he asks and she sees that he attempts to reach for her before deciding against it, placing his hands in his lap instead.

“Yeah,” she mumbles, voice steady. “I, uh…”

Somehow, she’s forgotten the photo in her hand and she waves it. It’s then that he catches the image, his eyes latching on to her and Jennifer’s smiling faces. He takes it from her in a move so smooth that she might as well had given it to him. It’s silent while he studies it--well, except for Erykah still singing, _I guess I’ll see you next lifetime_ \--but the lack of any other energy is stark. He takes his time studying the picture, eyes roaming over the glossy, well-handled portrait carefully. He’s had to have noticed that there are no family pictures around the house, nothing to remind her of them. But what Crane is not, is an idiot, and he knows that means more than what she doesn’t say.

“This is your sister, yes? Jennifer?”

She rubs her hands at her eyes and takes the picture back from him. It’s a stalling tactic because in any other circumstance, with any other person, she would have stopped the record player, picked up her glass, and ran to her room, question unanswered. He’s patient, though, placing his hands in his lap when she takes the photo. His eyes are soft, intrigued, _caring,_ with no trace of pity. That is the reason she stays.

“Yes, it is.”

Crane gives her a hint of a smile. “She’s lovely.”

“She was beautiful,” Abbie agrees.

And she was. It was more than just physically, though no one could ignore her big brown eyes and bright tawny skin and wild mane of curly hair. Jenny had been a light, almost literally for Abbie. She had been fun and funny, open where Abbie was closed, wavering when Abbie was staunch. They had been yin and yang, opposites, but incomplete without a little bit of the other.

“She died two years ago, today.” Abbie pauses as she sniffs and takes a deep breath. “In my line of work, I see some of the most evil, the most vile people on this planet. I’m reminded everyday of the things that human beings are capable of. And because of that, I forget that there are other dangers, that there are things out of our control, car crashes and diseases, that can hurt us too.”

A dam breaks loose and Abbie doesn’t know if it’s because he’s there just listening to her or if it’s because she hasn’t spoken about it since the cancer took her, or if it’s just because she misses Jenny _so fucking much,_ but she crumbles. Years of pent up sadness, grief, _anger,_ rack her body as she sobs. In seconds, his arms are around her and he’s holding her tightly. She falls into him, easier than she thinks is right. The tears are hot as they stream down her face, her chest heaving with emotion. All the while, he just holds her, one hand pressing firmly against her lower back, the other kneading slowly along her spine. She doesn’t know for how long they’re like this, doesn’t know how long she cries into his shoulder, his leaned head dropped down to hers.

When she finally pulls away from him, the world has tilted--or straightened-- and she lets out a long breath. It’s an easier breath than she’s taken in a while. Crane hovers, unwrapping his arms from around her but not moving away. He runs a hand through his hair and the movement makes her blink. Embarrassment heats her from the inside and now she really fights the urge to run to her bedroom. She wipes at her cheeks.

“I am so sorry, Crane,” she says instead, because there is something about being surrounded by his presence that also makes her want to stay right where she is. “I know your plan wasn’t to come home and have a weeping woman draped all over you.”

He only smiles at her, a faint lifting of the corners of his mouth. He’s still close and she catches his gaze, eyes steady on her. They are so blue, clear.

“It’s quite alright,” he tells her softly. “I imagine it’s something you’ve been needing to do.”

He reaches up and touches her, a hand to her cheek, his thumb wiping at a tear in the corner of her eye. “Feeling a little better?”

Abbie nods because she doesn’t think she can speak. It’s probably in the way he’s looking at her, she decides, that make her lean into him. It’s his eyes, for sure, low-lidded and like sapphire, his gaze open and assessing. She finds herself staring at him too, caught in him. She doesn’t think he means to lick his lips but he does, a single swipe of wet tongue across pink lips and she watches the action, enthralled. 

It’s because of this here, the hugging, the soft words, how Crane sits there hunched over as if to protect her from the outside world: lean and sturdy. She moves forward and it’s infinitesimal, her shoulder leaning towards his. He’s watching her intently (like he always does, she’s realized, his attention all on her whenever she’s in the room.) It’s gradual, in slow and steady motions, until her lips meet his. He doesn’t respond immediately. He’s still for a moment and somewhere inside of her, Abbie thinks that maybe this is a terrible fucking idea. But then, he’s leaning in too, tilting his head before kissing her back.

It takes a minute to find the proper rhythm: he’s still too timid and she’s thinking _this is Crane._ There are too many variables that are steadily racing through her head: she’s probably drunk and definitely emotional and she doesn’t even call the man by his first name so _what is she doing?_ But then his eyes flutter closed, she can feel his long lashes on her face, and his hand, the one that had still been planted on her face, slides to the back of her neck, bringing her closer. Then his mouth opens, tongue first tasting at her lips, before prodding her to part for him, and that silences Abbie’s thoughts.

His taste is cool and a little sweet, like he’s just sucked on a peppermint. It mixes with the warmth of her own tongue and it’s astounding, how quickly she clutches at him. Or maybe it isn’t. Because now, as she sinks her hands into his hair, as she leans in until the planes of his chest brush against hers, she realizes that she’s missed this. She’s missed the intimacy that comes with this, the way it feels to be touched by a man, the way it feels to be kissed by one. And it feels good to be kissed by _this_ one.

He’s taken over the kiss. He deepens it, mouth pressing more firmly. His lips are softer than she imagined, a little fuller as they move against hers. His beard tickles her face and she reaches up to scratch at the hair against his jaw, her nails scraping lightly. She does this at the same time he sucks on her tongue, and the action shoots straight between her legs. Abbie moans against his lips and it’s like water dousing them. 

Crane jumps back and stands up, as if to keep her from coming closer. He looks absolutely flummoxed: his eyes keep darting across the room, at anywhere but her. He also looks, well, _sexy._ His lips are swollen from their kiss and his hair is in disarray. His shirt is wrinkled and she knows she’s not imagining the dent in his pants.

Abbie can’t say what it means that she’s never been so aroused by just a kiss. She’s not one for messy entanglements and this is the _absolute epitome_ of messy. But, she still feels his kiss thrumming through her body and it mixes with the whiskey in a way that makes her hot.

“Ab-”he starts, but it doesn’t come out so he goes with, “Miss Mills” instead. “I am so sorry.”

She can’t help her small smile. “Why are you apologizing Crane? I kissed you.”

“Yes, but I…” he pauses, runs his long fingers through his pretty hair; it’s distracting. “I didn’t stop you and you’ve been crying and I…”

His words taper off when she stands. He blinks at her a couple times--he still gets a little tongue tied when he catches her in her sleep shorts and tank top--and watches as she walks over to him. He doesn’t move, although his gaze is wary. She understands that wariness, understands the line she wants to cross, understands that this could very well change everything. But, it’s been literal _years_ since she’s felt anything other than grief, than the anger that comes with loss. She just, even if just for a little while, wants to feel good.

She halts in front of him, several inches of space between them, and she looks up. “You wouldn’t be taking advantage of me,” Abbie tells him, because he’s sweet and kind and she knows he worries about others more than himself.

“Miss Mills…”

“Tell me you don’t want to do this, Crane, and I’ll walk away like it didn’t even happen. But if you’re feeling what I am right now…”

She lets the words hang there let’s the sentiment stand. Crane doesn’t bother to answer for a while. Instead, he chooses to stare at her, to study her in that way he does sometimes. Before he’d moved in, Abbie would see him on occasions with Irving, and he would remember any tidbit of information she had decided to share with him. She had chalked it up to his eidetic memory, the observation skill she thinks comes naturally to a learned man like him. After, though, she’d caught him a time or two staring at her intently, in a way that hinted at him trying to learn her, to figure out what she keeps below the surface.

That is how he is looking at her now. It’s slow this time, and he doesn’t hide it. He starts at the very top of her head, at the curls she’s piled up in a messy bun. He catches her eyes and stays there a moment, asking a question she can’t figure out. He lingers on her mouth and if she licks her lips, it’s because they’ve suddenly gone dry. The rest of his perusal is steady: over the collarbone exposed by the low cut of her tank top, over the nipples he has to be able to see through the fabric. Her shorts leave almost nothing to the imagination and the way he stares reminds Abbie of why she’s trying to get him between her thighs. His gaze travels all the way to the tips of her red-painted toes and when he catches her eyes again, he’s resolved.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“As sure as I am about anything,” she tells him, which is to say: no, she’s not. But then he whispers, “Abigail,” and the sound of her name on his tongue is fire. It is flames that shoot up in her belly and heats her from the inside.

The only thing she can think to do is close the distance between them so she does, pressing her body against his, lifting up to wrap her arms around his neck. He’s so solid she wants to whimper. She pushes him back and he frowns, until he hits the wall. His hands reaching out to plant on her hips is her invitation.

This kiss is more exploratory. He takes the lead almost immediately and she gives it to him. He pecks her lips once, twice, sucking the bottom one into his mouth on the third. She falls into the sensation, closing her eyes as he licks into her mouth. This time, her moan only spurs him on and he grabs harder at her hips, bringing her closer. He kisses her to taste her, to learn what she likes when he nibbles on her lips, to learn that she likes when he uses his tongue to temper the sting. She investigates on her own.

She unlocks her hand from behind his neck and gives in to the desire to touch him. Her nails trail down his face, lightly scratching until she gets to his neck. Her fingers tap lightly on the skin under his jaw, down the length of his neck, and he makes a dark sound in the back of his throat. She doesn’t stop, goaded by his reaction, by how he deepens the kiss when she unbuttons the top button of his shirt, when she unbuttons the second. He presses his lips to her jaw, to her cheek, to the spot just under her ear before he traces a shape into her skin with the tip of his tongue.

“Crane,” she moans, low and breathy. He dallies there, driving her a little out of her mind, biting and sucking until she’s sure he’ll leave a mark. She can’t bring herself to care.

It registers to her that Erykah Badu is still playing. The songstress croons, _love of my life, you are my friend,_ and there is way too much to unpack in that statement, way too much to unravel in that fact that Crane is making her feel something deeper and more foreign than lust. She steps away from him and he blinks, his eyes hazy with arousal.

“Abigail?”

She starts toward her bedroom and she crooks her finger for him to follow. 

He does.

Inside her bedroom is dark, save for the moonlight that peeks through the window blinds, casting a shadow on her bed. She looks at the queen sized bed, at the dainty lavender and grey comforter she had allowed herself to indulge in and she thinks of the memories she has there: of the loneliness that lives there, at the constant toss and turn of her body, of the nightmares that keep her awake. It will be nice to make some new ones.

The soft click of the door closing behind her catches her attention and she turns to find Crane standing uncertainly. His eyes are like steel in this light--more silver and gray than blue--but there’s nothing but warmth lurking in his gaze. She likes that. With that in mind, she grabs her top by its hem and she lifts it over her head, tossing it to the floor. Her breasts are bared to him and his eyes become darker, grayer. She slides her shorts down her hips and her cotton panties too, until she is wonderfully naked before him. She is gloriously brown, she knows, lighter in some places: the scar that runs across her belly, the burn mark on her upper thigh, the bullet wound on her calf; and darker in others: the chocolate of her areolas, of her nipples, the patch of neatly trimmed hair that covers her sex.

It is in her to be self conscious in this moment, to hide herself from him. He doesn’t need to know, shouldn’t even question those lighter parts of her. She’s ready to shut him down. But he only looks at her and smiles, telling her, “you’re beautiful.” She wants to tell him he’s beautiful too, even if she’s never seen him exposed.

She climbs onto the center of her bed. “Take off your clothes, Crane.”

The next day, she’ll remember his unwavering stare as she undresses for her, his dress shirt and t-shirt, and the trousers he drops without preamble. His naked form is ingrained in her memory, lean and muscular, his sex jutting out from the thick patch of curls. She crooks her finger for him again and he moves across the room, gait slow and unintentionally sexy. That’s more true of him than she thinks he knows: unintentionally sexy.

The bed dips under his weight and she falls back, resting her own weight on her arms. He only stops when he’s hovering over her. He’s not touching her outright, not yet, but she feels him everywhere. He’s settled between her legs and his hip bone brushes against her knee, his hands planted beside her head. She knows that a mere lifting of her hips would put her in contact with the part of him she wants most. She feels a little nervous though, because it’s _Crane_ and it’s been too long, and he keeps looking at her like she’s an angel or a goddess, something that should evoke _awe_. Not like she’s plain old Abbie Mills. She’ll remember this look most.

She waits for her heart to stop fluttering in her chest before she pulls him down to meet her. She’s never much liked kissing, the closeness, the intimacy. She thinks she likes it with Crane, though. He keeps one hand on the side of her head to prop himself up and with the other, he grips her chin, leaning down to kiss her. He kisses her hard, deep, a goal in the flick of his tongue. He licks at her ear, traces the outer pinna, bites at the lobe. He tongues a path down her neck, tasting at her skin as he does, tracing patterns in her flesh.

He dips his head between her breasts and inhales, letting out a soft groan that she feels in her chest, in the gush between her thighs. He doesn’t play with her nipples like she wants him to; instead, he ventures lower. He traces her scar with the tips of his fingers and Abbie freezes. Crane shoots her a look but he doesn’t stop tracing the long, jagged line with his fingers, planting kisses as his fingers move away. He stays there a while, _worshipping_ this scar, his touch light. And though she wants to make him stop, to hide it from him again, it feels too good, his hands on her. So she gives in to the sensation, relaxing back into her mattress, widening her knees so that he fits more comfortably between them.

It’s as if this is what he’s been waiting for. He eases down and settles her legs over her shoulders before he plants his face in her cunt. It’s unexpected, the long swipe of his tongue through her slit and Abbie’s hips buck up against his face. A large palm on her abdomen stills her and he licks into her again. Her moan is low but a more high pitched sound than she knew she was capable of making. It’s there again when he kisses her right in her center, tilting his head for better access, sucking on her lips like he’s trying to get as much juice as possible.

“Crane,” she whimpers, and she wants to move, wants to rotate her hips, wants to grind down on his face. He doesn’t let her, holding her down by pressing on her stomach, gripping her ass in his other hand. This opens her up for him and he’s definitely imagining he’s in, she doesn’t know, a _n ice cream shop._ He licks up one side of her labia, licks down the others, laps at her with the flat of his tongue before circling her clit with the tip.

It has somehow never occurred to her that he’d be good at this. Now, though, she thinks of how ridiculous that is because she’s seen him eat. He treats every meal like it’s a feast, or a fucking religious experience, and he focuses so intently on it. She thinks she’s feeling that right now, a religious experience. Pleasure hums through her entire body and her back arches deeply, pushing her pussy firmly against his greedy mouth. She looks up at the ceiling and wonders if there’s a god up there. If there is, she wants to thank him for this feeling.

Crane licks and he sucks and he eats her in earnest. The wet sound is _profane_ but it only serves to make her wetter. This isn’t what she was expecting when she leaned into him for comfort but when she falls apart on his tongue, her knees bracketing his head, she thinks it’s exactly what she needs.

And when he grips her thighs and slides into her, when he swivels his hips and hits her there, _there, oh god, there,_ when he fucks her so good she blacks out, Abbie is presented with his pretty blue eyes and whatever question he keeps trying to ask her. She has no response for it, she might never, so she closes her eyes to him and falls asleep, curled up against him.

When she wakes, she can’t figure out what to do, so she goes to her bathroom to dress for work, and she leaves him there alone.

************

The next time, it’s because she can’t sleep. Three weeks have passed. It’s a Saturday night and rain beats down on her roof. It’s the clap of thunder that gets to her, the bolts of lightning that shoot flashes of light into her room. It was a night like this when they’d gotten the call about her dad, about how the dark nights and the slick streets had taken him away from them.

At a particularly loud roll of thunder, one that shakes her entire house, she eases out of bed and trots into the hall. Crane’s bedroom is at the end of the hall, to the right past the guest bathroom--well, she guesses it’s his now--and his door isn’t fully closed. She pushes it open slowly. He’s not asleep.

When he hears the creak of the door, he sits up. He’s shirtless and his navy comforter falls to pool around his waist as he watches her walk in. The muscles in his arms are flexed as he leans back on to them, and his hair is mussed from lying in bed. His bed is even bigger than hers, and it takes up most of the room. It looks comfortable. _He_ looks comfortable.

“Abigail?” he questions. He calls her by her name more often than not now, though she figures with the way he had eaten her out, he’s more than earned that right.

“I can’t sleep,” she tells him.

He studies her a while, eyes sweeping over her in her oversized t-shirt and panties, and then he beckons her to join him.

She climbs into his bed, crawling directly on top of him. She discovers that he’s not wearing any underwear and she likes that she knows this about him, that he sleeps in the nude. She settles herself right on his crotch and his hands immediately grab ahold of her waist. She finally takes in the expression on his face and she can’t exactly read it. It’s hooded--and possibly a little unsure. They didn’t talk about it the last time and trying to talk about it now seems like it would ruin the mood so she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she pulls her shirt over her head and grabs his hands, covering her breasts with them. His hands are hot on her skin and her body warms beneath them. She had been so cold before.

She hasn’t forgotten how tactile he is. He speaks, he eats, he does everything with his hands and she likes how that translates when he’s touching her. The pads of his fingertips trace the curve of each of her breasts, slowly, reverently. She squirms on top of him. He circles her areola with the tip of his nail, circles just around her nipple. He does it again and again, painstakingly slowly. The sensations he’s eliciting are subtle: the slight tingle that runs down her spine, the faint quiver in her thighs, the dim throb of her clit. The feeling is good, _great,_ but Abbie leans into him, searching for more.

“Crane,” she breathes, and he moves to tap a deliberate cadence along her side. She inhales deeply as he touches at one of the most sensitive parts of her. Her stomach clenches and she shifts on him, rubbing her sex more intently over his dick.

“Abigail,” he whispers against a low rumble of thunder. His voice is deeper in the dark like this, warmer. She likes the sound, likes the way it seems to reverberate through her entire body. So she does it again, just a slight rocking of her hips. His eyes flicker up to hers and she holds his gaze, biting down on her bottom lip. Then she does it once more, twisting her ass as she undulates on him, the move pressing his sex between her fabric covered cheeks.

“ _Bloody,”_ Crane groans and the sound is her undoing. She climbs off of him to remove her panties but before he realizes her intentions, he tries to halt her, his large on his hips. It makes something flutter in her chest, the fact that he doesn’t want to let her go--even if it is just right now, just sex--and she pats at his hand to her right.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she tells him. In the flutter of the night, in the pounding rain and the stark lightning, it sounds like something else, like something more than she can promise him, so she shutters her gaze and continues to remove her underwear. He reaches over to fumble with his bedside drawer and returns to her with a condom. She takes it from his hand.

He is half hard beneath her so she takes him in her palm. He is long, like the rest of him, but thicker than she had figured, and her fingers barely meet when she wraps them around him. She knows her hand is hot on his flesh and he takes in a deep breath when she touches him. She works him with her hand, up and down, twisting her wrist in a way that makes her tighten her grip. His breathing shallows and he flexes his hips.

She rubs her thumb along his slit, gathers some of the wetness there, and then she spreads it around his bulbous head.

“Fuck,” he mumbles lowly and it makes Abbie grin down at him. He doesn’t curse in front of her--he’s way too polite for that--and it’s a turn on that he lets go when she’s naked before him. She can admit now that she has absently (and by absently, she means all the time) wondered what it would be like to sleep with him. He’s a dork, yes, and his lank hints at unsteadiness and a lack of coordination. But he’s actually _graceful,_ and observant, and considerate, and often intense in a way that frightens Abbie.

She isn’t frightened now, though, because he plucks the condom from her hand and tears it open. She watches as he pinches the tip before sliding it onto his erection. She’s mesmerized by the movement, by how his oddly elegant fingers caress his own body. And then they’re caressing hers, spreading her thighs easily so she’s widely straddling him, running his thumb along her opening to see if she’s wet enough for him. She is, coating his fingers when he pulls out of her. She thinks she’s been constantly wet since the first time they did this.

Several things happen at once: lightning rips across the room, bathing Crane’s flushed body in a pale glow, his eyes silver as they stare up at her; Abbie slides down the length of his dick, her body opening for him as he stretches her walls; thunder claps loudly, shaking the frame of the house, the sound echoed by Abbie’s ass hitting Crane’s thighs; and her heart attempts to mend itself, attempts to take his hard cock and his soft smiles and his warm body, and plant them exactly where loneliness stifles her.

He is so solid inside of her, and Abbie stills, her body holding him in her heat. Then Crane shifts, a movement only meant to make him more comfortable so that he can easily hold on to her waist. But it makes him flex inside of her and she closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them, she can feel his eyes on her, but she ignores his gaze to start moving.

Her pacing is slow, an easy twist of her hips. She rises up, clenching her walls as she does, and then she rotates on the way down. For right now, he allows her this dominance, content to watch her slide up and down his sex. He holds her at the base of her waist with both of his hands as she rides him, turning this into a sort of synchronized dance, her pleasure building in her thighs. She moans as her rhythm picks up and she touches herself.

She caresses her breasts, cupping them in the whole of her hands, rubbing along them with the pads of her fingers. She pinches at her nipples, her hips bucking a little faster on him, a little harder. Crane slides his hands over her hips until he’s got a firm hold of both of the globes of her ass in his palms. Then he spreads her cheeks and Abbie slides _all the way down_ and “oh, my fuck,” she stutters out for him.

Abbie abandons her own nipples for his. She reaches out to touch him, leaning down and catching herself with her hands on his chest. It tilts her hips up and she arches her back to grind back down on him. It opens her up for him and, _god, she’s so wet,_ and there is something about the whine he makes in the back of his throat that makes her react, that makes her cry out loudly in the darkness. She touches him: scrapes her fingernail along a nipple and then the other (his breathing grows choppy and he bucks up into her when she does that, so she files that away and does it again); taps a rhythm down the hard planes of his torso, his skin warm under her touch, the light dusting of hair soft; runs her fingers along his hip bones where his body flexes as he pushes up into her from the bottom.

When she presses against a divot there, at the same time she bounces down, squeezing him inside her, Crane _growls,_ and flips her over onto her back. He grabs onto her hands, lacing their fingers, and he holds them above her head.

“Fuck, Abigail,” he says, voice but a deep rumble. “You continue doing that and I’m going to come.”

“Isn’t that the point?” she asks, somewhat cheekily.

He plants himself back between her legs. “No,” he mutters, sliding thickly into her, light gaze catching hers. “Not until you get what you came for.”

It catches her off guard, what she says, the _way_ he says it, as if he knows something she doesn’t, as if he’s a little bitter she doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t give her enough time to dwell on it. His hips snap into her as he strokes her long and deep, the curls surrounding his sex tickling her pelvis every time he pushes in. He keeps one hand above her head, somehow pinning both wrists down, and his rhythm is steady. Abbie wants to touch him, wants to cup her hands over the curve of his tight ass, and push him into her--faster, harder. She wants to press at that divot again, to watch his reaction this time, to see if his eyes grow darker, to see if he’ll bite at his lip to keep from growling out again.

Instead, he fucks her into the mattress, trailing his free hand over her belly. He grabs her by the meat of her thighs and he lifts one leg over her shoulder, her knee resting near her ear.

“Oh fuck, Crane,” she moans loudly, panting as she slides all the way to the hilt. He’s so long in her, so deep in her, and Abbie swears she cannot breathe. She feels all of him, _everywhere._ He’s in her pussy as she gripping him, rocking her hips up to match his rhythm. And she feels him in her belly too, in the way the proverbial butterflies swarm, in the way she _swears_ she feels his length tapping at the bottom of her stomach. She feels him in the quiver of her thighs, in the curl of her toes. She even thinks she feels him in the flutter of her chest, in the way he touches her with careful hands, in how he looks at her with reverent eyes.

He holds her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her face to his. He doesn’t stare at her the way he expects. Instead, he leans down--and _oh,_ doesn’t that hit something good, something that shoots to her throbbing clit, making her mouth drop open--and places a kiss on her parted lips. The kiss is bruising, Crane tasting and biting at her mouth. There might be a message in this kiss, but she can’t make herself examine it because her body is _singing,_ and grasping his pulsing dick, and absolutely thrumming with pleasure. She tightens her hands into fists where they are still locked above her head. She closes her eyes because it feels so fucking good. And then she comes, shattering beneath him.

He stutters to his own release only moments after her. She clings to him, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, riding the wave with him, their wave of lust and passion and something else distinctly un-nameable. Crane pulls out of her and drops onto the bed beside her. Their breathing is labored, and it’s a while before she sufficiently catches her breath.

This is where Abbie is reminded that this plan of hers, this aberration, this deviation from her norm, from her stay in sorrow, is not a well thought out one. She doesn’t know what to do right now. She wants to stay, but no, that can’t be right, because this is just consolation and that only lasts until the warm, fluttery feeling in her chest dissipates. 

That’s the thing, though; it _hasn’t_ yet. Thw glow is still festering, and it’s been there faintly, ebbing, probably since the day he moved in.

She feels him shift beside her. He stands up, his long body unfolding from the bed, and he pads silently out of the room. He returns moments later with a warm, damp washcloth. Crane goes to wipe at her but that screams too intimate and she grabs the cloth before it can touch her thighs. He gives her an expression she doesn’t try to read and then turns his back to give her the illusion of privacy.

She wants to get up and go. She wants to keep the line they keep crossing clearly visible. She knows that it makes no sense, but nothing is making sense to her anymore. Except for maybe how good this is, how good she allows this to be when Crane wraps himself around her. So when he climbs back into bed and hesitantly reaches for her, she lets herself fall into him. She falls asleep curled against his chest.

In the morning, she wakes before he does and slips out of bed, retreating to her own room. Later, when they’re sitting on the couch together, watching _Tiny House Hunters,_ and sitting _just_ far away that they aren’t touching, neither of them bring it up.

************

Over the course of the next three weeks, it happens again. And again. It happens six more times. On days that are absolutely abhorrent, on the days that a case hits her particularly hard, on nights she’ll admit she wants to be held, she will climb out of her own bed and pad down the hall.

Sometimes he is asleep. When he is, she curves around him, one leg hitched against his hip, and she runs her fingers up and down his abdomen until he hardens on his thigh. He’s a light sleeper and he wakes at this, never denying her. Other nights, he’s awake and she swears it’s because he’s waiting for her, half sitting up in bed, naked in the dark. She likes those especially because his soft brown hair curls under his ears, and his broad shoulders stand out against his bed sheets and his silver blue eyes watch her in the moonlight. And when he bites at her skin and groans her name against her neck, staring intently as she falls apart beneath him, she wonders if maybe he needs this too.

They don’t talk about it either of these times either.


	2. I.ii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her body, traitor that it is, compensates in dreams of him. On occasion, they are but mere snippets she remembers when she wakes: his warmth, the taste of his skin, the feel of him pulsing inside of her. Some are more sinister, like date nights, Abbie in a sparkling dress and Crane in a suit; and nights in watching movies as they lay curled into the other.

She dreams of him sometimes. 

In an effort to keep some semblance of control, Abbie stays in her own bed for several nights, falling asleep alone and wanting. She doesn’t necessarily like it. She actually misses his skin next to hers, misses how her skin smells like his when she climbs out of his bed. He is only supposed to be there as relief, as a comforting body next to hers, but the lines are blurring and she doesn’t know how else to rectify it, so she tries to stay away.

Her body, traitor that it is, compensates in dreams of him. On occasion, they are but mere snippets she remembers when she wakes: his warmth, the taste of his skin, the feel of him pulsing inside of her. Some are more sinister, like date nights, Abbie in a sparkling dress and Crane in a suit; and nights in watching movies as they lay curled into the other.

Other times, it is both, a lived experience, live and in technicolor. She remembers one night in particular, closing a drug smuggling case. Driving home is a blur and she showers on autopilot, even foregoing dinner because she is so exhausted that she falls into bed and asleep immediately. 

When she awakes, she knows it isn’t real, one because there is a faint tinge around the edges of everything, but mostly because it’s the middle of the day and Abbie finds herself curled against Crane as something on the History Channel. She thinks she vaguely hears a narrator say something about World War II and she turns, so that her face on the pillow in his lap is now focused on his.

He doesn’t notice that she’s woken up yet, so she takes just a second to watch him. He is dazzling: attractive, for sure, but every good thing about him (his kindness, his intelligence, his devotion) seems to shine through to the surface, making his features stand out. She shifts her position so that she’s more fully facing him, her hands clasped under her cheeks. She smiles, biting her bottom lip to keep the grin from spreading.

“What is your weird obsession with America?” Abbie asks. Crane jumps a little, and he looks down at her, his mouth curving up when his eyes lock with hers. 

“You’re awake,” he says, as if he’s delighted.

She hums as she sits up, taking in his warm expression and, as if it’s instinct, as if it’s _normal,_ she leans up and kisses him. His response is so immediate, it’s like it’s automatic. It is a soft kiss, one that’s borne of intimacy and trust, and Abbie falls into it, lets him fall into her. She lies back on the sofa, pulling him with her, settling enough that he eases between her thighs. He crowds her when he leans over her, breaking the kiss to smile at her sweetly.

“I’ve missed you,” he tells her, his breath warm on her cheek.

She finds herself giggling at that. “I was just asleep.”

He makes a deep rumbling sound in the back of his throat and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “The longest half hour of my life.”

“You’re so goddamn sappy,” she says to him, and her voice is fonder than she’s ever heard it.

“But you love it,” he says, brushing his lips over hers. She doesn’t say anything in response, but she doesn’t deny it either. Instead, she wraps her slim arms around his neck and kisses him again. It isn’t a kiss so much as it is a declaration, of heat, of passion, of adoration. She _adores_ him in this moment, as he caresses the side of her face as he nibbles on her bottom lip. 

This seems so easy between them. He pulls the shirt she’s wearing over her head, tasting at her flesh, licking at her until she’s squirming beneath him, smiling in the joy she feels. His own shirt is pulled up, and it seems he has decided he no longer wants to wait because he’s pulling her shorts and panties down over her hips, tossing them in the direction of the coffee table. His fingers are silk inside of her, sliding into her wetness and making her buck her hips to bring him closer. He grins at her, just as he curves a finger. She whimpers, hands grabbing absently at the couch cushions.

He leans down until his face is in the crook of her neck and he trails his tongue up until he can bite at her ear. There, he whispers sweet-nothings, _you are so beautiful, you are a treasure, i adore you,_ though in his husky baritone, they sound like the secrets to the universe.

It all makes her so aroused that her eyes nearly roll in the back of her head. Her body is _blushing;_ she is hot and wet and dewey and this all feels a little more than mere sex. Especially when he shucks his own sweat pants and plants his length at the center of her. He’s so hard, solid, and for several torturous moments, he plays at her entrance. He rubs himself along her slit, up and down, gathering the slick at the head of his dick. He circles at her swollen clit, and Abbie groans deep in her throat.

“Fuck,” she pants. “Stop playing with me, Crane.”

“If you really want it,” he croons, a little haughty, as if this game is played often. “You’ll say it.”

She doesn’t answer, instead reaching down to grab him in her hand. He hisses at the touch and she squeezes him a little, feeling him pulse in her hand. “Come on, baby,” she moans.

“Say my name, Abigail,” he tells her. She bites her lip, refusing.

His chuckles before pressing a kiss to her forehead, the tip of her nose, her cheek, her jaw. He stops shy at her lips, hovering above her. He flexes his hips and it’s like it’s connected to her thighs. They fall open easily, and it should be almost embarrassing, how responsive she is to him. But her thighs shake and her clit pulses with anticipation; and the cocky tilt of his smile, and the deep admiration in his pretty eyes keeps her from doing anything but wanting him. 

So she does as he asks, whispering _“Ichabod,”_ and then he slides into her, thick and slow. “God,” she mutters right after and he runs his tongue across her bottom lip until she looks at him.

“No, it’s just me, darling.”

She smiles at that, a sweet, soft smile, and she hooks her legs around his hips to bring him closer. 

This is easy, lazy sex: _lovemaking._ They seem to fit so perfectly here, his solid length thrumming inside her, stretching her as she wraps around him, squeezing him in her heat. They touch and it’s barely there caresses, it’s light squeezes and faint scratches. He twists his hips, hitting the spot he knows makes her gasp. Her small hands slide down his back, over muscles and tendons strained with tension, until she presses on his lower back. She delights in the light sheen of sweat under her fingertips, is fascinated by the way his hips tighten as he pushes in and out of her. 

She holds onto him tighter, and he hugs her back, both of them panting and sliding against one another, synchronized, bodies moving in tandem. When he looks down at her and catches her gaze, she holds it, staring back up at him. He gives her another one of those fond smiles that makes her heart beat a little faster. He is gentle, tender, and when she comes, it’s holding on to him, breathing heavily into his mouth. She goes to close her eyes, but he traces a finger down her cheek and she blinks back into the moment, her brown gaze focused. He follows after her, stiffening as he pumps into her one final time. 

He doesn’t break eye contact until he falls down on her, resting his face on her chest. 

“God,” she breathes. “That was…”

He hums in agreement, before he kisses the center of her chest. 

“I love you, Treasure.”

She knows she’s going to say it back, can feel it in her entire body, but the dream ends before she can her herself voice it.

When she wakes up, she’s so hot, she can’t breathe and even the _thought_ of something like that, something like that _with Crane,_ (or Ichabod as her dream self feels comfortable saying) causes her to hyperventilate, causes fear to bubble up inside her. So she throws the covers off of her, reveling in the cool air that hits her body, before, like so many times before, she heads to her bathroom to get ready for work.

************

Maybe the dreams should have alerted her to it, but Abbie realizes that this is _really_ a _terrible, fucking idea_ when Irving invites the two of them to a night of dancing at a jazz club that has just opened up in Sleepy Hollow. Since they’ve been doing, whatever it is they’ve been doing, their other interactions have changed, although not so much that anyone else would notice.

Things are tense when they aren’t in bed together, in the awkward way of people who are trying really hard to break the tension. Their conversations are not so much stilted as she doesn’t know what to say to him anymore, so conversations are terribly surface level. And she is now hyper aware of him. She knows when he’s in a room, can _feel_ him when he’s sitting beside her, even if he’s on the other end of the sofa. They don’t touch as freely (or maybe they touch too much, she can’t tell because she’s going out of her mind) but every accidental touch is charged, it _lingers,_ and sometimes Abbie struggles to even breathe when she brushes past him at the breakfast table. 

The new jazz club is relatively upscale, no jeans allowed, and Abbie is not prepared for what she sees when she walks into their living room where he is dressed and waiting for her. He has pulled out all the stops. He’s gotten a haircut so his hair just brushes the top of his ears and his mustache and beard have been neatly trimmed. He’s in a pair of black trousers fitted to his length and a black shirt stretches across his chest. Draped over his shoulders is a white blazer, tailored to him. He looks nice in his work clothes, but there is something about Crane is dress clothes that should be a little bit illegal.

As should the way he looks at her now. He starts at her feet encased in black strappy sandals that add inches to her height and make her legs look improbably long. Her dress is almost modest: it falls to just below her knees and the long sleeves stem from a high, rounded neckline. But it fits to her, gently hugging her curves. When he blinks up at her, there is fire there.

“Abigail, you look…” He trails off, like he’s searching for the word, and it makes her red stained lips curve up.

“Thanks.” She smiles and touches nervously at her hair, her curls piled high on her head in a neat coily puff. “Would you like a drink before we go?”

She doesn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, she turns on the heels of her shoes, and heads into the kitchen. She hears Crane make a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Her dress is completely backless, the soft black material picking up again over the curve of her backside. Her body warms at the praise; he follows her into the kitchen.

She pours them shots of tequila. Crane is definitely a whiskey drinker, but he agrees to take the shot along with her, only grimacing slightly. She tilts her head at him when he hesitates.

“With a bit of lime, maybe?”

Nodding, she gestures to the refrigerator where Crane keeps limes and lemons he cuts daily for teas and other recipes. While she peels the saran wrap away from the top of the small bowl, Crane grabs the tequila bottle and pours them both ore alcohol. They throw the shot back and both immediately bite into the lime. When she drops her lime into the trash can, she plucks his to do the same. He returns the tequila to the cupboard and when she looks at him again, he’s staring at her mouth.

“You’ve got...” he starts, voice low and deep. He trails off as he steps closer to her, hand raised. She waits, breath bated, as he wipes at the corner of her lips. “...a touch of lime,” he finishes. Her tongue sweeps across her bottom lip instinctively, touching the pad of his thumb and his pupils widen. She feels her face flush, cheeks warm with the _thing_ she hasn’t been able to name since their first time, maybe since before then. He doesn’t linger (although she wishes he would, because _god, his hands_ ) and she tempers the urge to pout when he pulls away. She shakes her head at herself because she’s being ridiculous. It’s fine. They’re going to go listen to nice jazz--just as friends--and she feels okay today. She isn’t stressed or particularly sad, and there is no need for comfort, no pain she needs to assuage. There is no reason for him to stay so close.

She calls for a cab.

************

The club, Ellington’s, is like nothing she’s ever seen in Sleepy Hollow: all sleek lines and clean leather and a few panels of wood that only adds to the ostentation. It is just after 9 so the line is pretty nonexistent and they walk straight through. The door leads them down a dark hallway that opens up to a large space. There are several small booths around the outer edges and a few couches tucked neatly into corners too. A stage is the focal point of the room and Abbie figures that’s where the band sets up. There is nothing there currently, except a few stands and a microphone. Now, soft jazz plays from speakers she cannot see and it’s pleasant, the easy hum of the saxophone, the distinct cords of the trumpet. Abbie feels herself relax, shoulders lowering.

“There.” Abbie resists the urge to jump at the sound of Crane’s voice in her ear, at how the deep timbre slides down her spine, and it takes a moment to notice he’s pointing towards the bar. Irving and his wife Cynthia are standing there, no drinks in their hands yet, but looking resplendent in a fitted suit and a dazzling red dress. She follows Crane’s lead, his hand at her back making her skin tingle as he steers them towards their friends. It’s different, new: these soft, casual touches; but the tingle idles, skin aflame long after he removes his hand.

“God, Abbie, you look amazing,” Cynthia gushes as she holds out her hands in greeting. Abbie grabs them and leans in for Cynthia to press a kiss to her cheek.

“Thanks, Cynt. You are wearing the hell out of this dress.”

Cynthia smiles, her dark eyes vibrant. “Thanks, girl.”

To her side, Crane and Irving clasp hands and give one another half hugs, as warm a smile as Abbie has ever seen gracing Crane’s face. She’s always been amused by their unlikely friendship, that of the strange British professor and the hardass FBI agent. She’s heard from both of them about how they met when Frank had gone to Oxford for a conference and Crane had been there to discuss a case he had consulted on with the Oxford police. Apparently, they had hit it off when they were both having beers in the hotel lobby later that evening. They kept in touch, mostly through email, and when Crane moved to Sleepy Hollow with his then wife a couple years later, they reconnected.

Crane is not so must standoffish as he is critical of the people he spends his time with. He is unfailingly polite to everyone he meets and kind to a fault, but Abbie knows that there are but a few people in his circle of friends, apparently especially after he and the Katrina woman split. With all that being said, it is fascinating to watch the two of them together, to watch Irving loosen his tie, to watch Crane smiling unabashedly. He hasn’t smiled like that in a while. Now his smiles are a little more heated, though sometimes timid. Abbie realizes she misses those open smiles and something in her chest lurches.

She turns to the bar to order a drink, stepping next to Crane as she does. Before she can open her mouth to order, however, Crane slides her a drink, lips tilted up slightly as he looks down at her.

“I thought it easier to order for you,” he says, deep voice unwavering. “Since I do now know what you like.”

The words flame her and she bites at her lips. She takes note of his face: his blue eyes, his aquiline nose, his pink lips surrounded by the dark, neatly trimmed beard. His expression gives nothing away as he stares back at her so she lets herself get lost--for just a second--because she feels like she’s burning when he looks at her and she finds that she likes that, feeling like she’s burning.

At Irving’s insistence, they move to secure a booth near the side of the stage, a little off-center. It allows them full view of the stage as well as a sense of privacy. It is the privacy that throws Abbie off. The booth is fairly large--she’s sure another two adults could sit with them--and Cynthia sidles up next to Frank, no distance between them. Abbie imagines that with their demanding jobs (Cynthia is a lawyer) and a 12 year old daughter, they rarely get time to themselves. Abbie can’t begrudge them of that, but that leaves her and Crane settled on the other side of the booth, almost as if they’re at their own table. For some reason, that makes Abbie anxious. It’s too much like a date, too intimate. Too much, period.

She doesn’t know what she should be doing right now, unsure of how she’s supposed to behave. She feels overwhelmed: Crane is so close to her and his clean scent is assaulting her and it’s as if his spirit is huddling around hers, poking and prodding, trying to attach. Frank and Cynthia are cuddled, Irving uncharacteristically flirty with Cynthia and Abbie watches her giggle into her straw when he places a hand on her thigh. Something sharp and green shoots through her and she turns away from them, picking up her drink to take a swallow. She turns to find Crane watching her.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly.

Abbie takes a deep breath and tries to channel their normal. “Yes. Good. A little tired.”

“Long day?”

“No longer than any other, I don’t suppose,” she tells him, although she’s certain she doesn’t even know what that really means. He’s making her nervous. “But tell me about your day. I feel like we haven’t talked much in a while.”

The smile he gives her is a little sad, but he does as she asks. He speaks in his lilting voice, just loud enough to be heard over the melodious music. She gets lost in it, loses herself in how he grows a little animated at some English joke he told his class that a few of his students actually understood. And his words go adrift in her mind as he pulls his hands from his lap, gesticulating passionately. She watches him, maybe with something akin to awe on her face because there is so much _light_ on his. It makes her feel light inside and the chains that encase her heart sag--just a little bit more--and suddenly, she feels lightheaded. It makes her remember moments when she could latch on to these emotions easily, when she could lock onto joy and serenity with a level of effortlessness that she can’t even fathom anymore. Because it’s been years since Jenny and Corbin and decades since Ma and her dad, and she hasn’t felt any of these things in so long that she’s having difficulty breathing or thinking or any general human function. She chugs the drink he brought her while he’s still talking, hoping it’ll calm her. It doesn’t.

“Abigail…” he interrupts himself when he notices her spacing. With no warning or time for her to prepare, he reaches over and cups her face in the palm of his hand. He’s never touched her this casually before, especially before they began having sex, but she lets him--she might even lean into it. He rubs her cheek with the pad of his thumb and she stifles a tiny moan that threatens to escape. She _loves_ his hands, everything about them: how big they are, how graceful his fingers look, the way they feel on her skin--rough-tipped and gentle. She bites her lips on instinct, a reaction she’s developed for when he stares at her too long. He uses the same pad of this thumb to pull her lip out of her mouth.

“You’ve said that you’re alright,” he says, “but you look a little flushed.”

“Maybe I’m a little hot,” she tells him.

He hums in the back of his throat, palm still on her face. “Shall I get you another drink, then?”

Abbie nods and he responds in kind. He doesn’t take his hand off of her face yet. Instead, he leans forward. She thinks he might kiss her, he’s staring at her mouth so. Instead, he presses his forehead to hers for but a second--much too long and not nearly long enough--and then he backs away.

“I shall return shortly,” he tells her, and then he’s gone, long legs and straight posture taking him through the crowd that has gathered without her notice.

“What the fuck, Mills?” she mumbles to herself, taking a deep breath. She turns to see if Frank and Cynthia are still flirting to find them both staring back at her. Cynthia has a devious smirk on her face and Frank is looking at her curiously. 

Cynthia detracts herself from Irving and slides closer to Abbie. Abbie notices that she is actively trying to temper her grin. “Please,” she says, just over the music. “Please tell me that y’all have happened.”

Abbie, who’s had years of practice feigning calm, glances at Cynthia. “What?”

“You and Ichabod,” she interates. “I’ve been convinced you two would get together since Frank told me Ichabod was moving into your spare bedroom.”

This is news to Abbie. “What?”

Cynthia shrugs, as if it is obvious. “Yeah. You’re both smart and gorgeous and god, you’d make a beautiful couple.”

Abbie smiles at her, one that doesn’t reach her eyes (and barely meets her lips) before she reaches for her drink. Upon realizing that it’s empty, she grouses at the glass. “Um, no,” she mumbles to Cynthia, voice somehow steady. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh damn,” she mutters good-naturedly. “It’s alright. There’s still a couple more months before I owe Frank $50.”

Before Abbie can ask her what the hell she’s talking about, Cynthia announces she needs to use the restroom and Abbie lets her out of the booth, happy to be out of the spotlight. She should have known that wouldn’t exactly be easy.

She doesn’t know how she forgets how shrewd Frank is, how fucking observant. She sighs as he moves closer to her, glowering at her empty glass.

“He won’t wait on you forever,” she hears Irving say to her but it takes a moment to register. It might be because _what?_ It could also be because she’s spotted Crane at the bar, where he is smiling down at a woman standing beside him. He’s doing that _thing_ he does, half-bowing and staring into her eyes with a concentration that Abbie knows is both off-putting and enticing. For her part, the woman is eating it up, smiling coyly at him, the fingers of one of her hands running up and down his arm.

She doesn’t know what her face says when she turns back to the table but it makes Frank tilt his head. He repeats himself. “He won’t want on you forever, Mills.”

“You already said that,” Abbie snaps. “And I understood it the second time about as much as I did the first. Which is not at all.”

Irving smiles at her, more humoring than anything else. “For someone who is so damn good at their job, you are a terrible liar.”

“What?”

“Oh, Mills, you’ve got to know that Crane is half in love with you.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t have to know anything.”

Irving inclines his head. “Because then it would require you to open up to someone?”

Abbie snaps back as if she’s been struck. She blinks at him, startled at her own reaction, at how much that seems to strike right in the middle of her heart. She absolutely does not want this to continue on whatever path it’s on. She shoots her gaze towards the bathrooms, hoping to see Cynthia coming back. When that yields nothing, she looks towards Crane again. She can’t see much of him through the crowd anymore, but he sticks out enough in the club’s clientele that she knows he’s still by the bar, probably still talking to the dark skinned woman who had been smiling up at him like he’d, she didn’t know, cured fucking cancer.

“Frank…”

“I’ve been watching you two,” he says, “the past couple weeks. There’s something different about you. It’s nothing overt, especially on your part, but I’m paid to be observant.” He pauses to take a drink from his glass. “And what I’ve seen is the way that you lean into him a little more than I’ve ever seen you get physically close with someone. The fact that he touches you a little more than he ever has.”

Abbie says the only thing she can think to say. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Maybe it isn’t.” Frank’s expression is tad contrite. “I just don’t want to see either of you hurt.”

Abbie wants to thank God just then because Cynthia bounds back to the table. She pulls her attention away as Cynthia begins to lament about too few stalls and Frank gives her a look before returning his attention to his wife.

More people have begun showing up and it’s starting to feel like a club. The music is a little louder--some upbeat song with several horns playing as a base--and almost all of the booths are full of people. A few groups have made their way to the dance floor and are dancing excitedly to the music.

“My apologies,” she hears from besider her. She finds Crane standing by the booth. He has four drinks clutched easily in his large hands, not a drop of liquid on his white jacket. “The queue was horrendous, but I managed to procure refills for all of us.”

He passes two of the drinks over to Cynthia and Frank who smile their thanks. Then, he hands her one before sitting down next to her. The air shifts when he sits beside her again, growing warner and a little stilted with the tension that still seems to settle around them..

There isn’t much space between them and if Abbie were to scoot over just a little, she would be able to feel the hard press of his thigh against her hips. She wants that, because she enjoys the feel of him, likes when he is pressed against all of her. She thinks of what Irving said only moments ago--about how she leans into him more, how he touches her more. And all of it is true, despite the lies she had been trying to maintain. Even now, he’s got an arm draped over the back padding of the booth, but his fingers are absently tapping along her shoulder. This brings to mind the picture of Crane at the bar, the woman’s fingers treading places that do not belong to her.

The reality that those places don’t belong to Abbie either is staggering. Because it feels like he does, especially when he lets her into his bed late at night, when she milks him, his face contorting beautifully as her walls flutter around him, when he holds her face in his elegant hands and kisses her. He feels like hers, even when she knows that her heart will no longer let anyone in, even when she knows he’s too good for her.

None of that stops her from taking a swallow of her drink and moving closer to him. She inhales, closing her eyes briefly at the clean, woodsy scent of him. His fingers drum along her shoulder blade, moving up to rub along the skin of her neck. He shifts next to her, moving closer.

“Did I tell you how lovely you look tonight?” His voice is deep against her skin.

“Not in words,” she responds, remembering the dark way he’d looked at her earlier.

“Well, you do,” he says, a finger now tracing up the curve of her ear. “You always look beautiful, but tonight, you’re bloody gorgeous.”

“Yeah?” She’s never been so thankful for the skin complexion that hides her blush. His response is a deep hum. “And you don’t look too shabby tonight, either.”

He smiles down at her. “Do you really think so?”

It’s her turn to hum. “And so did that lady at the bar.”

“The lady at the…” He seems genuinely confused for a moment. “Ah, Vanessa. She was merely complimenting my jacket and…”

He trails off at the expression on Abbie’s face.

“I’m sure she was just complimenting your jacket,” Abbie retorts, “which is why her hands were all over you.”

He frowns at her, blue eyes questioning. “And you are upset about that?” He asks the question carefully.

“No,” Abbie tells him. “I’m only saying that _Vanessa_ was definitely flirting with you. I could see it from here. And you were flirting back.”

He is silent for a full minute.

“And you would care,” he wonders, “if i had been, in fact, _flirting,_ with her?”

Abbie knows that there is a response that he expects, that he wants. She can tell by the slow way he asks the question. That answer lies in the same place as her answer to the question his eyes ask when they are in bed together. She doesn’t know where either are. Abbie shakes her head in response.

“No, you’re an adult. We aren’t really…” She waves a hand. “You can flirt with whoever you want. You can look at whoever you want,” she adds.

She starts to reach for her drink but he grabs a hold of her hand before he can.

“You’re the only one I see here tonight, Abigail.” Nothing he has ever said has felt so truthful. She knows he means it right now; but she can’t help but wonder what will happen when they end, when he decides to leave her too. Which is why she mumbles,

“You can’t say things like that, Crane.” She knows she doesn’t imagine the tick in his jaw.

“And why can’t I?”

“Because it…” she inhales deeply, chancing a look at him. “It blurs things.”

Abbie can _feel_ his scowl when he says, “Well, I am unsure it blurs the lines any more than you never failing to leave my bed in the mornings.”

Abbie jumps back at the unexpected barb, and it cuts, the lightly veiled venom in his voice. “Crane,” she murmurs his name, but when he faces her and lifts an eyebrow, she finds she doesn’t know what she means to say. She is saved from having to figure it out when their friends jump up--well, Cynthia jumps up and Frank follows, smiling amusedly--and suggest they go out onto the floor. The band is set to play momentarily.

“Miss Mills and I…” Crane starts.

“Maybe after I use the restroom,” Abbie says quickly. She makes a move to get up but Crane doesn’t stand.

“Crane.” Her voice is firm. There is a stare off and she can’t confirm for how long it lasts. She had thought he was fine with the lack of conversation surrounding their nightly activities. It seems, however, that she has only been deluding herself. That, she realizes, is not uncommon for her. But standing off with stubborn men to get her way is something she is particularly skilled at and when she stays staunch, he acquiesces first.

“Very well,” he sighs, and he lets her out of the booth.

*****

Abbie stays in the restroom for as long as possible. It helps that there is a line out the door and she has to wait. She is in line behind two women who look so much alike that they have to be sisters and Abbie feels the familiar lurch of sadness. In the years since Jenny’s death, she’s managed to keep a lid on those pesky thoughts. Even when she’s lying in bed at night--plagued by nightmares or steeped in loneliness--she tries to thwart thoughts of what a future with her baby sister would have looked like.

But nights with Crane have done a number on her. It’s given her thoughts, ideas, visions, of things that could be. Sometimes she thinks, when Crane is smiling down at her with those piercing blue eyes, that she could be happy or some variation of. Then she sees scenes like this, sisters laughing and loving and _being,_ and she knows she might never know happy again.

*****

When she walks back toward the club, she’s struck by the seemingly abrupt change in atmosphere. It almost appears as if she is in another place. A small six-piece band has assembled and they’re playing a lively song that has the crowd dancing and laughing and clapping along. It makes her smile bittersweetly, memories of cleaning the house with her mother on Saturday morning while jazz played in the background surfacing.

She doesn’t have time to wallow in her angst because a shadow crosses in front of her and she has to step back to avoid being run over. She looks to her offender. He is just taller than her with her heels on and his brown skin is deeply tanned, genetics and the sun mixing beautifully. His muscular arms bulge from the navy shirt that he’s wearing. She startles to find deep, dark brown eyes beaming at her.

“Luke?”

“Abbie, hey.” He goes to hug her and she lets him, not quick enough to stop it. He is familiar--his scent, his warmth--and when he pulls away, her smile is sincere.

“It’s good to see you,” she tells him, meaning it.

“Yeah.” He gives her a thorough once over and his gaze is a touch lascivious. “Abbie, you look _amazing._ ”

His compliment doesn’t make her blush as it once would have, but she appreciates it all the same. She can tell that he wants to engage in some idle conversation, and she has half a mind to oblige him. Then she turns and catches Crane’s eyes over the heads of several people. He runs his gaze over Luke before flickering his eyes back up to meet hers. His expression is unreadable.

“Actually, Luke,” she interrupts him, though she had no idea what he’s even saying now. “I have to go. I’m actually here with people so…”

She trails off and he nods, grin ever confident. It is the Luke that she both admired and hated. He had been the last man she’d had a relationship with and it had ended more or less amiably, Abbie not prepared for the emotional capacity needed to be with someone, and Luke not prepared for the fidelity. He doesn’t let her leave until she agrees to meet for coffee at some unspecified date in the future, and then she strolls--slowly, she’ll admit--back to where her friends are.

They are all standing now and watching the band, close to the booth that has been occupied by another two couples. Frank and Cynthia, she supposes, have decided to hold off on dancing on the floor and they’re now wrapped up in each other. Frank is standing behind her, his arms circling her waist, and they rock to the music, smiles wide with liquor and happiness.

She eases past them until she’s standing next to Crane, arms brushing his shoulders.

“Miss Mills,” he says, though she reads his lips more than hears him, and he produces a new drink for her. She gives him a grateful smile and takes a sip, letting the liquor flood her system. She’s not a lush or anything, but, for the moment, drinking is the only thing that makes sense. She knows that the more gin she drinks, the warmer and looser and lesser she’ll feel. She thinks she likes that, because nothing else she understands: not the open and affectionate way that Frank and Cynthia keep acting, not the way Crane’s being is disturbing her equilibrium in ways she didn’t know were possible outside of the bedroom. She closes her eyes and takes a long, shuddering breath. Then she takes another sip.

She doesn’t know how they end up like this, dancing with their arms wrapped around one another in the middle of the dance floor. She’s slightly more than pleasantly buzzed, and it’s almost as if she can feel the music coursing through her veins. Crane is a solid wall pressed against her and he feels good, like security and safety and _love_ (and it might escape her that she’s a little too drunk to acknowledge that she’s thought of the word love where Crane is concerned.)

Her hands are on his shoulders, one hand playing absently with the lapel of his jacket and the other, the collar of his shirt. His own hands are splayed wide at the base of her spine, rough-tipped fingers rubbing against her skin. The music is slow, easy jazz listening, and they aren’t doing much more than swaying. It’s the mood all around them: the lighting lowered, horns wailing a song of lust and love, couples engaged in intimate dances. She glances around, eyes unfocused, until they target her dance partner on their own volition. She thinks he senses her eyes on him because he inclines his head at her, flexing his strong fingers and holding on to her tighter.

They hold this position for a long while, the swaying and soft touching and long looks into the other’s eyes. Well, Crane stares at her and Abbie tries not to falter under his gaze, breaking it when it becomes too much. She likes the way of this, though, likes his smell and the fact that he’s so firm around her. They dance through several songs. There are a couple more slow ones that make them dance closer, Abbie’s head ducked Crane’s chin. There are more upbeat ones, songs that Crane lets Abbie take the lead on as she writhes and dips and snakes against his body. It is nice and _fun,_ and Abbie finds herself softly smiling more than she has in some time.

Later, when they wave goodbye to Frank and Cynthia, they stand against the side of the building, quietly taking in the sights around them as they wait for their own cab.

“Tonight was good,” Crane murmurs next to her. “I had a wonderful time with you, Abigail.”

She’s tired, her feet hurting from the unfamiliar strain of the high heels, and she wants nothing more than to get out of her dress. When Crane voices that, though, she can’t help but grin, a surge of energy rushing through her. It is exacerbated when he reaches over and grabs her hand, lacing his long fingers with hers. She stares at their fingers for a solid minute and she knows that he’s waiting to see what she’ll do. She struggles to decide if this is some sort of test or if he just merely wants contact. It could be both, or neither, but Abbie knows there is only one response; she closes her hands around his. 

“It really was fun, Crane,” she says, though she doesn’t make eye contact. 

They hold hands the entire way home.

All of that is probably why, when they get back to their house and he only presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth before disappearing into his bedroom, Abbie is confused and not a little crestfallen. 

She climbs naked into her own bed, shrouded in disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:  
> One, your comments on the last chapter made me so happy. Thank you so much.  
> Two, I know that there is also a club scene in TMHTLY, so I tried very hard to stay true to this particular story. I hope I did it justice and it didn't sound repetitive.  
> Three, this chapter is a bit slow. It was necessary for pacing. I hope you aren't too disappointed.  
> The next chapter gets intense, though! Hope you'll be there for it:)  
> As usual, kudos (or comments) are appreciated.  
> Thank you all so much for reading.  
> -Elle


	3. II.i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She can only think of the clench of her thighs and what it feels like to be held and fucked and caressed and cherished. She can only think that this might be what it feels like to be loved.
> 
> Abbie and Crane in the light of day.

It is another two weeks before she finds herself wrapped around Crane’s waist.

They haven’t seen much of each other. Crane is preparing for finals week, and Abbie has just finished a kidnapping case. The case ended with two dead toddlers and a perpetrator she’s going to try her hardest to make sure is in prison for the rest of his life and several more after. She should be mollified in that near certainty, but she can’t get the vision of those toddlers--small and frail and innocent, lying blue faced and cold on his basement floor--out of her head. It makes her _angry_ and that energy flows through her veins, _slinks_ through her veins, until she’s jittery and jumpy.

She leaves work with what she knows is a scowl on her face. She contemplates stopping by a bar and grabbing a beer or two, but that would only feed her anger so she continues to home. She throws on something to feed her emotions, though, some Rage Against the Machine, bobbing her head and tapping her fingers against the steering wheel as she speeds through the streets. The music is loud, the bass bumping in her chest, and it helps a little, actually allowing the anger to fester. As coping mechanisms go, it’s not ideal, but it’s what she’s got.

She pulls into her neighborhood much too soon and lowers the volume as she turns into the driveway of her home. Crane’s truck is already there and the light is on in the front room. The jitters that had begun to abate rev up again, intensifying. It’s been four days since she’s physically laid eyes on him. He’s usually not home when she gets there (and the first couple times that was the case, she’d had the irrational fear that it was because he was out with another woman; she’d shut that down quickly, though, because she had no claim to him--didn’t want one--and he could do whatever he wanted). Other times, she gets home way too late, and she doesn’t have the energy to wake him.

So she is nervous right now--and still leaning into that anger, that same bass thrumming through her chest still, although she’s turned off her Jeep already. The influx of emotion is staggering and she takes several seconds to steady herself before she finally hops out of her Jeep and makes her way to the front door.

The sight of Crane standing in the kitchen in his lounge wear--a pair of thin gray cotton pants that conceal _nothing_ and a plain white t-shirt--makes her thighs clench. His hair is down, wavy like it gets when he’s just out of the shower. He’s eating _ice cream_ for goodness’ sake, twirling his tongue around the cold metal of the spoon. All of the feelings swarming her body coalesces into lust and Abbie makes an involuntary noise in the back of her throat as the door closes behind her. He jumps at the sound.

“Abigail,” Crane says slowly, dropping the spoon back into the container. He seems surprised, as if she doesn’t live there too. It makes her drop her bag by the front door, shifting from foot to foot. “You’re home.”

“Yeah, I am,” she mumbles, because what else is she supposed to say to that? She catches that music is playing in the background, Ella Fitzgerald singing _“I knew we’d have to part, For I could always reach your lips, But I could never reach your heart,”_ and Abbie stiffens.

He looks at the whole of her, catching her eye again. “You look exhausted.”

“Gee thanks.”

Noting the offence, he attempts to stammer out, “No, I did not mean that you look… Only that…” but when Abbie doesn’t try to save him, he quiets. 

Then, “Have you eaten?”

She shakes her head and he nods and straightens, as if he had been waiting for this task.

“Then take a moment to relax,” he says. “Relieve yourself of your work clothes. I’ll prepare you a plate.”

Despite the fact that she hasn’t seen him in a week, he has still made sure that she eats, leaving wrapped plates for her on the stove at night and now, preparing this meal. He’s so good to her, _way too good_ for her. She is self-aware enough to know that she is, quite honestly, fucked up, and way too doleful for someone as light and as _good_ as Crane. She knows that her darkness, her staunch inability to let anyone in, only serves as a repellent and, sooner or later, Crane will take his warm eyes and gentle hands and homemade pasta sauce, and he will go where there will be someone beautiful and light and vibrant waiting for him. Someone who can give him more than silent moans in the middle of the night, more than clipped conversations that only delve so deep and halt before she had to open herself up too much. He deserves more than her.

But she’s currently hungry (for food and his length, and maybe, just _him_ ) and his face is asking the question he _keeps_ trying to ask. The energy (the adrenaline, and fear, and lust, and _want_ ) humming gently through her wants to try to understand that tonight. So she nods at him, shoots him a small grin, and she ventures to the back.

She showers off the grime of the day, scrubs off the sight of the unrepentant terrorizer and the dead children in the basement. After, she towels dry and throws on a pair of plain black cotton panties and an oversized sweatshirt; it covers her to mid-thigh. It is another couple days until her hair wash day, so there isn’t much she can do besides pile her curls up on top of her head. She goes back out to the kitchen.

Crane is sliding a grilled cheese on a plate next to what she knows is a bowl of tomato and basil soup when she pads into the room. She can smell the butter and cheese on the toasted bread and it makes her mouth water. She is unsure how she missed the sweet smell of the basil when she had walked into the house.

She’s told him before that when she was younger, her favorite comfort meal had been grilled cheese and tomato soup. Of course, she’d been talking about canned Campbell’s and orange block cheese on toast, but it jolts her, that this is the meal he has decided to prepare, even though they haven’t spoken in a while and he has no idea how much this case has been getting to her.

“Ah, Miss Mills,” he says when he sees her. “Right on time.”

She sits at the place he has set for her, eyes studying her food. “This looks amazing. Thanks, Crane.”

He looks adorably pleased. “My pleasure.” He does the bow thing he does when he’s about to leave her company and she halts him with a hand on his arm.

“Stay,” she mumbles, and when he still dithers, she adds, “please.”

He hesitates for only a moment more before he inclines his head and takes the seat next to her. She watches him push a lock of hair out of his face before she begins eating. She devours her food, the fact that she hasn’t eaten anything but coffee since yesterday making the simple (but excellent) meal taste five-course. They don’t say much for a while, him content to let her stuff her face, so she asks him about his week.

“Overly stressed young adults would drive anyone mad,” is his answer, but he says it with the fondness of someone who loves their job.

He wonders about hers and she can only think to tell him, “It was horrible and gruesome and it involved kids, so I don’t want to talk about it.”

His eyes are kind when she tells him that and he reaches over to touch her in comfort. His hand lands on her thigh, large and warm, the light calluses on his fingertips rough on her skin. She has never become aroused by mere touch before, at least until him, and it still takes her by surprise that her thighs clench and her clit throbs whenever he so much as brushes against her. 

If the two were not so attuned to one another, the shift in mood would be imperceptible. But, as they are, Abbie notices that the temperature spikes, and she tugs at the collar of the sweatshirt she’s wearing, hooking in finger in the fabric and stretching it away from her suddenly feverish skin. His fingers flex on her thigh, voluntary or not, she can’t tell.

She takes this as an invitation, standing before closing the short distance between them. She’s unsure if it’s the adrenaline from earlier, rushing back two-fold, or if it is something else that has her heart beating heavily in her chest, knocking firmly against her ribcage. It is a swooping sensation, like the organ drops into the pit of her stomach before fluttering vigorously back up to its rightful place. She pauses, one arm outstretched, like she’s reaching for him, the other behind her as she’s uncertain. He searches her expression and she sees him let out a breath before he grabs at her hand, prodding her closer. She obliges, climbing into his lap, shifting until she is settled firmly on top of him. He wraps his arms around her waist. His hands widen over her back and she thinks to the last time they were close like this, dancing pressed together, his touch calming and heated and way too intimate.

When she is with him like this, she is always reminded of how big he is. He isn’t a man made of too much muscle, but he’s tall and his hands are _at least_ twice the size of hers and she always manages to feel dainty when she’s curved around him. In all other aspects of Abbie’s life, she has to be taller and stronger and even larger than life. Next to him, such burdens are not requirements.

She rocks her hips, only to make herself more comfortable, but the move plants her directly on his crotch. They both stifle whatever sounds want to escape, but his hands tighten on her back. That cause the fabric of her sweatshirt to bunch up, and he regards her speculatively.

“Did you buy this jumper oversized?” he wonders.

She blinks at the unexpected question, looking down. The sweater is plain gray, FBI written on it in large black letters. It had belonged to an old fling, Danny, someone she had met when they were training together for the Bureau. He had been a little like Crane, but _less,_ a mere distraction from everything else in her life.

“Umm, no,” she said, unthinking. “Old fling.”

Crane’s eyes flash, but his expression is neutral as he hums. It only occurs to her after how that sounds. He plays with the fabric at the hem of the sweatshirt.

“I’ll thank you, Miss Mills,” he says, and there is an underlying coldness to his tone, “to refrain from wearing other men’s clothing when you’re sitting atop me.”

He says all of this and his voice is serious, but it’s also lower, a deep grumble in the small kitchen. It makes her shiver, and if he notices, he doesn’t make that known.

“Take it off of me, then,” she tells him, spreading her arms wide. He does, gripping the hem in both hands. He slides the material up, knuckles stroking her skin as he does. Abbie finds herself growing warmer, even as her clothes are being taken off. He tosses the sweatshirt to the side and then she’s only in her plain black panties.

There is a vulnerability in being naked against a fully clothed man. They have been like this before, but it seems more charged now. Abbie thinks that she should scurry to undress him too, to even the playing field. She, however, finds herself feeling comfortable in her skin, feeling content, _okay,_ in this position. The realization makes her frown.

Crane grips her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Are you alright?”

Her nod is automatic. “Of course.”

He inclines his head and opens his mouth, probably to say something profoundly sweet and Crane-like, so Abbie leans in, effectively stopping him. She presses a kiss to the right corner of his mouth, to the left. Sh _e_ tips the fingers of one hand along his jaw, up past his ears, until she grabs a fistful of soft, silky, chestnut hair. Then she leans into him, arching her back just enough that she presses herself down on him. He makes another humming sound in the back of his throat and then she kisses him full on.

His lips are cool from the ice cream, sweet when she drags her tongue across his bottom lip. She nibbles at his mouth, harsh bites with her teeth that she soothes with her tongue. It’s a game she plays with him for a while, getting herself acquainted with his mouth again. And he lets her, completely still except for the minute squeezing of her waist, the soft, pleased sounds that he makes. It’s not until she scratches at the nape of his neck that he decides to join the dance.

He moves one hand to cup as much of her ass as he can. The others taps against the base of her spine. He travels up, fingers soft and slow on her back, as he presses his mouth to hers. The kiss is deep, _languid,_ an unhurried melding of lips and tongue. They kiss for hours, she swears, with his hands hot on her naked skin and the feel of the soft fabric of his clothes lighting her up. He’s so solid beneath her and she finds herself moaning into his mouth. He doesn’t speed up the kiss at that, like she thinks he will; in fact, he seems to slow down, pulling away momentarily. There is a wet sound as they break apart, loud in the silence of the room, the music had stopped at some point, and Abbie licks her lips to chase his taste.

His eyes are blue-black when she looks at him. He looks so gone on her that she reaches up to touch him, hesitantly, her fingers tipping against the skin of his cheeks.

“You’re pretty,” she says to him, softly, fingers tender as they stroke his beard. It is so much softer than it looks and she feels it when he gives her a small smile.

“You’re beautiful.”

He’s said this to her this before, but Abbie feels like she truly is, when he tells her like that. Abbie hums and responds with what she hopes is a smile, especially because the rest of her is. Smiling, she means.

She leans in to kiss him again, a quick peck that turns into something longer and wetter. She likes the taste of him; he is sweet and spicy and he makes her think of good things, like sunflowers and nights under the stars, and breakfast in bed, and slow, lazy sex.

When she goes to pull his shirt up by the hem, he pauses her, his fingers lightly gripping her wrists.

“You mean to do this here?”

Abbie tilts her head, sort of smiling at him. “You don’t want to?

The question is mostly rhetorical because she knows he does, especially when she stands and the whole of her body is bared to him, except for the tiny scrap of black cotton that hides her sex. She leans against the table, the wood pressing into her back. He eyes her up and down, and it never fails to make her body sing with delight, how he looks at her.

“Right here?” he asks, obviously thinking about it as he stands in front of her. She journeys up the length of his sinewy form, up, up, until she’s nearly straining her neck. And then he steps closer, so close that he’s crowding her, his heat and his scent and his _lust._

He places one hand on the table beside her; the other he lets drop down to her panties. He drags a finger along the top seam and then down her left side. He slides _just_ the tip of his finger under the edge of her panties and continues his trek.

“Is this how you do this?” His question is met with a gasp when he presses at her middle. That isn’t quite the answer he wants, though, because he pauses and looks at her, eyebrow lifted. She swallows and nods, widening her legs as she does.

His deft fingers push her panties aside and already she’s wet and swollen. He slides the digit directly through her slit, several times, up and down and with a twist of his finger, gathering the wetness there. It still amazes her how wet she gets for him, how effortless it seems. She arches a little, pushing her sex towards his hand. He drags his finger up her slit and then rubs it against her clit, pinching the knob lightly.

Abbie bites down on her lip to keep from crying out, almost drawing blood when he slips another long finger inside of her. 

“ _Crane_.”

His breath comes out a lot more breathy than she intends, and it’s probably because she is burning up from the inside, her body aflame under his touch, responsive and pulsing and malleable. That is why when he pulls his hand out of her and lifts her by her waist to sit her on the table, she is not startled and she goes willingly. Her eyes are wide as he hooks his hands in the bands of her underwear and slides them down her thighs. She rocks her hips a bit to help him get the fabric over her ass, and when he’s gotten them off of her body, he balls the underwear up and stuffs them in the pocket of his pajama pants. 

Abbie inclines her head but she doesn’t comment. Crane settles himself between her open thighs, pulling her down until she is perched on the edge of the table. Their positions are perfect like this. Her legs can wrap around his waist at this angle, if she wants, and his hard length presses against her. His cotton pants are soft, but there is a coarseness she feels as she rubs her bare pussy against the pants. Crane rocks his hips into her, involuntarily, and her body responds in kind.

“Tell me,” Crane whispers, voice a little raspy. “What do you want?”

She is not unused to men asking these nonsensical questions while in the throes of passion, but, like with Crane, there is nothing but sincerity in the question. It appears he wants an honest answer, one that is more than just how badly she needs to feel him inside of her. But, if not anything else, Abbie can be consistently obtuse, so she scoots just a little closer to him so that she’s more easily able to touch him.

She takes a page from his book and runs her fingers along his stomach, at the waistband of his pants. His belly contracts so she does it again, tracing over the hard planes of his body. The light dusting of hair is soft, coarser when she dips a hand into his pants and into the hair covering his sex. His dick is hard, _burning_ , and she palms him, twisting her hand at the base. He pumps into her, following the rhythm until he’s throbbing in her hand.

She reaches for the back of his head to bring him closer, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Abbie bites at his neck, at his ear lobe.

“I want you naked,” she tells him, voice a mere whisper. “I want you deep inside me.”

She pulls back to lock eyes with him. He is always so sexy in these moments. His hair is a wavy hair mess, hanging at his shoulders, and his skin is a faint red from the warmth of his arousal. He’s a little wrinkled from her hands and there is the dazed look in his eyes he still gets whenever they’re like this.

He obliges, taking his shirt off and tossing onto the floor before he steps out of his pants. He springs free, long and solid, and Abbie is sure she begins to salivate.

“Do you have a condom?” he asks, startling her.

She nods before reaching behind her and under her plate for a condom she had stashed there. As she goes to open it, she finds Crane’s curious gaze.

“I was hopeful,” she tells him in answer. He blinks, but he just shakes his head ruefully, waiting for her to open the package and slip the condom on him.

As soon as she get to his base, he grabs both of her hands in his. Then, he leans in and kisses her again, a sweet kiss that it not uncommon when they’re like this, but one that, nevertheless, catches her off guard. She falls into it anyway, because when they’re together, she feels powerless to do anything but. He keeps kissing her, placing a hand to her cheek, gently cupping her skin. He keeps kissing her as he spreads her legs with his free hand tickling the skin of her thighs. He keeps kissing her as he slides into her, both of them gasping against the other at the feeling.

He stays close as he slides in and out, in a rhythmic dance, his mouth still on hers, though not exactly in a kiss. He licks his lips, and hers too, and she chases after him, nipping at his lips. He holds on to her hips as he drives into her. The room is heavy with the sound of them: Crane’s soft grunts, Abbie’s faint gasps of air. It smells like them, like lavender and sandalwood, and like sex and intimacy and feelings unshared. Abbie feels wound up with pleasure and uncertainty, and that manifests itself in excessive touching.

He touches her face, her neck. He presses a hand to the place above her heart, pausing, before trailing his long fingers over her breasts. She runs her hands over his shoulders, down his arms. She touches at his torso, at his belly, at the corded tightness of his waist.

When she squeezes around his dick, for just a second, his rhythm falters. He breathes out in her ear, stuttering, “A-Abigail,” twisting his hips as he pushes back into her. They are both covered in the sheen of sweat that comes from being so close. He’s settled a long arm around her waist and both of hers are around his shoulders. They slide against one another, her breasts heavy and full on the hardness of his chest. 

He pushes in and the table squeaks under their weight. He squeezes her waist and tilts his hips enough that his pelvis rubs against her clit. He is still so unbelievably hard in her and Abbie cries out, throwing her head back and _mewling,_ the noise catching in her throat. She digs her nails into his back and he goes for any skin exposed to his mouth, her jaw, her throat, her chest, kissing and biting and sucking on her body.

“Fuck,” she moans, low and breathy. “ _God, fuck me, Crane.”_

He takes it as instructions, as a demand, and he slams into her, his strokes harder, and more erratic, and _still so long._ He comes back up to press a kiss to her mouth. It is, she thinks, just a little kiss, almost just a mere peck on the lips. But he’s staring into her eyes, and they’re the pretty navy she likes because it means he’s completely wrapped up in her, and he’s holding on to her so tight, and he’s so nice and beautiful, and it feels to Abbie like _more._

There is a quiver in her chest and it runs all the way to the very tip of her toes. Sex with Crane is damn near transcendent, at least that’s what she thinks when her orgasm rips through her. One minute she’s riding the wave, clutching at Crane, holding on to him as he bites at her throat, and then she’s _cresting_ , legs tightening around his waist, nails digging into his skin, lips parted.

Her body feels weightless at the same time that it feels whole, like there is passion and power and ardor in this orgasm. She’s caught up in the rapture, caught up in bliss, that it’s only when Crane stiffens and pulses inside of her that she registers that he’s coming too. Something about that makes her feel...selfish.

************

Like always, they’re initially quiet after it’s over. He takes a moment to catch his breath, and then he pulls out of her, leaving her a little cold. He offers a hand to help her off the table and she knows she doesn’t imagine him shivering as she slides down his body. She can’t make herself look him in the eye.

She searching around for her panties when he asks, “Would you sleep with me tonight?”

She stands up straight, her sweatshirt in her hand. His question is unsure and that’s strange coming from him; even when he’s hesitant, he’s never at a loss for confidence.

Abbie doesn’t answer right away, because she isn’t sure of her response. Its obvious they’ve shared a bed after sex before, but that is mostly because Abbie would feel disgusting and grimy, leaving his room so soon after doing the deed. They’ve never done it in a common room and that he’s asking for them to share a bed hints at a need for something Abbie doesn’t know how to give.

But all of that seems irrelevant in the face of what she does want. Her body is still tingling from her orgasm, hot and wet. She pictures her hair is in disarray, curled due to the heat and sweat. She is still naked and her chest is raw from his bites. She _knows_ she looks absolutely ridiculous, but he’s looking at her like he always does, like she’s the most fascinating thing on the planet.

Even Abbie, who knows that she is unlovable and that he’ll inevitable leave, is not immune to this look. It is a little sexual and a lot adoring and Abbie finds herself hot and cold and unable to breathe.

Before she grew up and rooted herself in reality, when she still thought that dreams could come true, Abbie and Jenny used to fantasize about the men who would be by their sides when they got out of Sleepy Hollow. She can admit that the man in her dream had been nothing like Crane. He hadn’t been as tall nor did he have such striking blue eyes or his soft brown hair. She can’t remember which personality she had thought to be ideal, but it hadn’t been Crane’s, whose brand of kindness is unlike anything she’s ever encountered before. It’s open and it’s honest and it makes no demands.

And right now, it’s only asking that they share a bed.

She opens her mouth to speak but her thoughts must have taken too long because he watches as his expression falls.

“Alright,” he starts, squaring his shoulders. It’s as if it hurts, what he perceives as her rejections, and he shakes off the agony. “I’m just going to…”

“Wait, Crane.” Abbie stops him from turning with a soft hand to his arm. “I…” the words fade. “Yes,” she tries instead. “Just let me…” she waves a hand at herself. Then she turns and runs to her bathroom, although not before she sees the way he smiles, eyes lighting up. It might be worth her discomfort to see that look on his face.

Abbie cleans herself up and throws on a t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. She makes her way back down to Crane’s room, not feeling like she’s on her way to the gallows, but not quite _not_ feeling like it either. Crane isn't there when she walks in, but his door is open and the light beside his bed is turned on. She hears the water rushing from the sink in his bathroom and she lets out a whoosh of air; she rejoices in the moment alone.

Like him, Crane’s room is neat and tidy, his queen sized bed takes up a lot of space, but he’s managed to make good use of the rest of it, adding a tall, dark-wood dresser and two matching side tables. There is a comfortable looking reading chair in one corner, and to support his book collections, he’s built shelves in the corners of his walls. Together, with various pieces of framed quotes handing, gives the room a sort of hippie vibe that fits Crane to a tee. A pair of glasses rests on his bedside table.

She is inspecting the collection of hand-carved wooden figurines on his dresser top, particularly the likeness of a hummingbird, when Crane comes into the room. She hears the click of the door before she actually notices he’s there, and she almost drops the figure when she jumps.

“Shit, Crane,” Abbie mumbles, setting it down. “You scared me.”

“Apologies,” he says, clasping his hands together in front of him. He inhales deeply. “I see you’ve, uh, found my figurines.”

“Wait.” Abbie looks at the figures with a keener eye. They are beautifully done, detailed and unbelievably realistic. “You made these?”

He nods and his mouth ticks up in her favorite little side smile. He picks up one, this shaped like a rabbit, and runs his fingers along the intricate edges. “It’s been a hobby of mine since I was a boy.”

“Really?” The thought interests Abbie, and she tilts her head a little, stepping closer. “How’d you get into it?”

His smile turns a little sad. “Growing up, my parents were not often home. They both worked in politics, you see. Before they became quite so busy, though, I learned about carving. A friend of my father’s would bring over these little figurines for my sisters and I. Olivia couldn’t be bothered with anything that one couldn’t actually play with and Genevieve was only concerned with her dolls. But I took a liking to it.”

“Any reason they’re animals?”

He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “We lived in front of a large wooded area where we’d run around and wreak havoc. When I began carving, the little creatures were all I could think of. And then it became habit.”

“Well they’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Abbie nods her welcome, and she shifts toward the bed, walking to it. “Any other hidden talents you got?”

He chuckles. “Ah, no. No other talents, I’m afraid.”

Abbie grins at that, because that’s probably untrue. Crane is the kind of crazy smart that can probably do anything, like cure diseases or solve climate change. She is sure his talent has no bounds.

“And you?” Crane wonders.

Abbie is confused. “What about me?”

“Any hidden talents?”

“Me?” Abbie feels her brows furrow.

She never had much time to cultivate talents. She drew a lot, as a young girl, and she danced often, even choreographing dances in her room to Janet Jackson songs that she’d perform for her mother. But then life had come at her and she was never had the chance to figure out if she was any good at it.

“No, no hidden talents,” she tells him. She looks down briefly at her hands in her lap. “Not a lot of talents.”

Crane smiles in the same indulgent way that Abbie just has. “I don’t believe that to be true. I think you’re far too gifted to be talentless.”

He says it with all the acceptance of a universal truth, as something that cannot be debated or denied. Abbie should be used to the way he compliments her, but frankly, it bewilders the hell out of her senses. So she does as she always does when Crane says something insanely sweet, and turns away from him, trying to stave off a blush.

Abbie wonders if the predicament she’s in right now--lying in the middle of Crane’s bed and attempting to enjoy this strange turn of events--has anything to do with the barrage of emotions that have settled through her today. She’d been so angry after the resolution of her case, mad at the lack of humanity that permeates her job. But then she’d walked into her house and saw Crane, a man who radiates _goodness_ , and it’d been like whiplash, her body’s response. Maybe it is why, after he’s fed her and sexed her so good she’s seen stars, she is compelled to honor this request for him. She knows that it passes the line, wherever that is right now, and she knows that it might backfire.

But she tells herself that, after the day, _the week_ , she’s had, it only makes sense for her to cuddle up under the one thing in her life that provides a sense of consolation. Because that’s what this is, right? What it’s always been? Friends providing comfort?

Abbie nods to herself, as if it’s been decided, as Crane strips down to his boxer briefs and tosses his clothes on his reading chair. It’s why she allows herself to participate in this strange and domestic scene, why the signs that flash in her head-- _get out now_ ; _this is still a bad idea_ ; _there’s no way this ends well_ \-- goes dim. It’s why she breathes as she slides under Crane’s soft comforter, on the far side because she knows he favors the side closest to the window. It’s why she lets herself scan the length of his body before he turns the lights out.

He is steady and solid, both metaphorically and physically when he slides into the bed beside her. And that’s why she turns and folds herself into him, sleep claiming her as soon as he wraps her up in his arms.

Abbie startles awake. Her eyes open in a panic and she jumps a little, instantly on alert. Her ears perk and when all that she can hear are the soft, even breaths coming from the man behind her, she allows herself to relax. When she falls back into the mattress, Crane lets out a heavier sigh, shifting a bit. Abbie thinks that he might wake as he wraps an arm around her to bring her closer, but he seems to fall deeper into sleep, especially as he settles firmly against her backside. His body is hot on hers, even through the fabric of their clothes, and she works to ignore his half-hard sex nestled between her butt cheeks.

It is Saturday and, normally, she works from the office because there is always something she can be doing. But Irving has forbidden her from returning until at least Monday, and even Monday is up in the air, because he knows the effect of seeing those children lying still on concrete floors had on her. Briefly, she wishes that were not the case, as her first instinct is always to be gone when Crane wakes up. She thinks she should say fuck it and ignore Frank’s warning, still going to the office because work is where she is strongest, where the petty vulnerabilites she experiences late at night, when she’s next to Crane, can be pushed away until they are locked tightly in a box behind her heart.

But as much as her stomach aches at the thought of being there when Crane opens his eyes to look at her, there is something else that churns in her stomach at the thought of what Crane might think about her if she isn’t. Crane’s friendship makes this different. It is easy to ignore the wants and wills and wishes of strangers. With Crane, she must at least tread carefully, something she admits she has willfully ignored until now. Because he _is_ her friend, and she knows that it is only a matter of time before he feels that the emotional labor of whatever they’re doing, of _them_ , is too much to bear and he pushes her out of his life.

Then she thinks of last night and how his face lit up when she’d agreed to spend the night in his room, and how that had seemed to make her light too, and, for right now, she doesn’t want the touch of darkness that might settle in her at the disappointment he might exude. It makes her want to hyperventilate and she presses her hand to her chest, telling herself to _breathe, Abbie, just breathe._

Abbie has learned to be afraid of few things. Guns, bombs, rapists are all monsters she faces without blinking. That she gives a damn about Crane’s look of disappointment fucking _terrifies_ her.

Abbie tries to go back to sleep and when she fails, gets up to go to the bathroom. She takes her time: using the toilet, washing her face, swilling her mouth with mouthwash. She takes her headwrap off since her hair is a mess anyway and then she avoids staring at herself in the mirror for too long. She tips out and back into Crane’s room. The door opens to find him sitting up in the bed, staring pensively out of the window. He turns to face her when the door creaks open and Abbie doesn’t think she much imagines the melancholy on his face.

He blinks as she closes the door behind her.

“Hi,” she says, biting her lip as she moves further into the room. “I was just in the bathroom.”

He gives her a hint of a smile and pats the empty space next to him. She crawls back under the covers and sits close enough that their thighs touch.

“How are you this morning?” he asks. His voice is deep and a little scratchy from sleep. It makes her _shiver._

“Alright,” she tells him. “Tired.”

He hums. “I would tell you to rest a little more if it meant that you would do it.”

That makes her smile in return. She would respond with something like _“well there’s no rest for the wicked,”_ but it’s too early for the compliments he’s sure to retaliate with, so she puts her hands on him instead. She rests one on his upper thigh, just under the fabric of his briefs. She knows that she harps on how warm he often is, but she always seems to run cold and it helps, his warmth.

She fingers gently at the dark hair covering his thighs for a while before he stops her with his own hand. He doesn’t move away, though, instead grabbing ahold of hers and intertwining their fingers.

The look of them together like this startles Abbie: her smooth brown thigh next to his hairier, paler one, tinged pink from his body’s heat; his large hand wrapped around her significantly smaller one, holding her softly, like she’s delicate and exquisite. Sometimes, when she is around him, she actually feels that way.

“At what time are you due to work?” Crane asks.

Abbie shakes her head. “Irving gave me the weekend off. Told me I was banned from the office and that if I worked from home, he’d know.”

She looks at him pointedly and he attempts to feign confusion.

“Any idea what that’s about?” she asks him.

“Not in the slightest.”

Abbie rolls her eyes. “I know that Irving isn’t above spying on me. Or having you do it.”

“I know no such thing.”

Abbie mumbles, “bullshit,” but it’s with a smile and he squeezes her hand in response. “And what are you doing today?”

Crane pauses briefly before answering. “I do not have any plans.”

Abbie bites at her lip, contemplating, and then she throws out, as casually as possible, “Well, then I guess that means you’re free to keep me company. To make sure that I don’t sneak off and do any work.”

She feels the shift in the air, feels him stiffen _ever so slightly_ beside her. It shouldn’t be a big deal, though, because before _all of this,_ they had hung out together. Often. Their Sunday rituals had not been strictly delegated to the house. There had been breakfasts some mornings at diners when Crane had been too tired to cook or drinking at pubs when sitting in the house and _thinking_ had been too cloying. 

To Abbie, spending time together outside of the house makes sense. Making them only about sex is _truly_ what will change things, is _actually_ what blurs the lines. She tells herself that this is what they need to remind themselves that they are _friends._ He is just her friend.

Resolute, she nods once and turns to face him. She cannot tell what he’s thinking, but then she never can anymore, not like she used to.

Then he smiles the smile she likes, lips only half tilted, and she breathes again.

************

When Abbie was a little girl, she used to watch her mother get ready to go out. She had an entire routine and watching her had mesmerized Abbie, so much that it had never failed to make sure smile.

Abbie remembers watching her mother walk out of her bathroom in her robe, steam billowing out after her along with the scent of lavender and honey. She would play Sade, _I gave you all that I have inside, And you took my love,_ and then she would spread cosmetics across her vanity. Jenny hadn’t been able to sit still long enough so she would often run in and out of the room, alternating between watching and playing with her toys, but Abbie was enthralled, and she would settle on a small step stool by the vanity to watch.

She would apply makeup, slowly and deliberately, warm colors that complemented her deep brown skin with lipsticks that were vibrant and bold. She would take her time rubbing lotion into her body, the smell of which matched her body wash, and Abbie swore she _glowed_ after. 

She’d had hair like Abbie, a little more kink to the curls that Jenny’s, and she’d often let it hang loose, waving beautifully at her shoulder. Her mother had been beautiful, the kind that was both natural and intimidating, but Lori Mills had been so sweet that it had made her all the more lovely.

Abbie channels her mother now as she moves about the room in her robe, picking up her jar of shea butter before she sits down at her own vanity. She chooses not to think of the implications of this routine, one she does not perform everyday.

Instead, she just plays Amy Winehouse as she puts on her lotion. She sings along to the music, _we only said goodbye with words, i died a hundred times,_ as she does her makeup, though very minimally, and applies coconut oil to her co-washed hair. It settles full and shiny, past her shoulders, and she decides it looks good.

Amy still sings as she gets dressed and she blames the weather--it’s nearly June and hot outside--on the yellow sundress she decides on. It’s a fairly simple dress, with thin tie straps and pretty lace detailing along the v-neck, but she likes how the canary cotton looks against her skin. Yellow had been Jenny’s favorite color and for once, Abbie smiles at the thought of her, at the fact that she’d be both overly pleased that Abbie wore this in deference to her and see it as a reason to make fun of her.

Abbie throws on a pair of flat, strappy sandals, and grabs a small matching purse before going in search of Crane. She finds him in the living room, sitting on the couch watching television. It is like deja vu, this scene: Crane sitting and waiting for her while she takes too much time to be ready.

He is more attuned to her than she thinks she realizes, and he turns when she steps into the room before she even gets a chance to call his name. He stands to his full height and as he pushes his hands into his pockets, he does his intense eye thing that makes Abbie absurdly happy that she wore this dress.

“You look nice,” he tells her, though his voice is a bit lower, a bit deeper, and she knows that _nice_ isn’t the word he means. 

He looks good too, in a pair of well fitting olive chinos and a white button down shirt, camel colored loafers on his feet. His shirt is buttoned down enough that just a touch of chest hair peeks through, and he’s got on what she calls his “professor glasses,” a pair of flattering glasses with gold frames that make him look both smart and pretentious. Still, he looks _good,_ and Abbie thinks it’s unfair that this quirky, lanky white man can be so distractingly attractive.

“You ready to go?” she asks him.

“Sure.”

“Great,” she mumbles and she starts for the door. “You’re driving.”

Crane just gives her a too fond smile as he shut the television off. “As you wish.”

************

Abbie can see the crowd of people before they even make it onto Main Street. It is the Saturday before Memorial Day and it seems that Sleepy Hollow’s Annual Memorial Day Celebration is in full swing. The celebration has been a staple of Sleepy Hollow since she was a kid, officially as a memorial for America’s fallen troops, more accurately as an excuse to shut down town, eat fried food on a stick, and drink beer in the street.

It has been years since she’s been to one of these, the last time with Corbin on one of his rare Saturdays. She and the county sheriff had walked through the crowd, talking some about Abbie and Quantico, but mostly, they had watched and laughed at children playing while Abbie dodged questions about a possible future with kids of her own just as much as she’d had to continuously steer him away from the fried twinkie booth.

It had been the last time that they’d attended the event together, the last time that they’d spent any significant amount of time together, because Abbie had gone to Virginia and Corbin had died a year later, and it’d been hard, continuing with the FBI and watching after Jenny and reminding herself that despite all of her loss, she wasn’t actually alone. Until, of course, Jenny had died just a few years later and then she _was,_ before Crane had come to help alleviate some of the loneliness.

The pain of it makes her turn towards her window, eyes unseeing. She thinks she loses time because when she comes to, Crane is standing on the outside of the open passenger door, calling her name.

“Abigail?” he says, leaning down into the car, and she knows this isn’t the first time he’s tried to get her attention. She notices his hand on her shoulder and the stark concern in his blue eyes. It makes her shudder.

“Abi-”

“I’m fine,” she cuts him off, though her voice is not unkind.

He is skeptical, she can tell, but Abbie knows that he’s gotten used to the hard armor that she wears. She can read the resignation in his face the moment that his expression changes. She wonders what he sees. The way they’d been last night, and this morning, must have opened something Abbie hadn’t intended, must have exposed more than bare breasts and soft thighs. He must see it close, or maybe he just can’t find where it’d been open again, because he stands up fully, eyes shielded from her view, and he takes his hand off of her shoulder. That shudder shouldn’t spread, shouldn’t make her feel cold again, because that’s just par for the course. But it does and Abbie steels her own resolve, reminding herself that the entire point of his endeavor is to thicken the lines.

He holds the door open for her and she steps out into the pavement. All of her senses are attacked at that moment, it seems: the sound of people laughing and children screaming; the vibrancy of the beech trees; the feel of the wind whipping at the hem of her dress. It’s almost overwhelming, especially since it’s been so long since she’s spent time doing something merely for the sake of doing it, for the sake of fun. It’s exhilarating too, and Abbie is nearly guilty that she feels this way, when no one else in her family can.

She shakes it off as she always does. She hasn’t gotten this far by dwelling on things that she cannot change. Crane walks next to her, close enough that they brush against one another. She lets it happen and doesn’t move away.

They don’t have a clear plan ahead, haven’t discussed where they’re going, so they just instinctively head for the crowd. Booths are set up on either side of Main Street. When she used to go, there were beer tents and food trucks as well as tent games set up for families. She assumes it is much of the same, except maybe larger. Before they can walk in, there is a large table set up for them to purchase tickets since no money is taken inside. There isn’t a very long line, and they step in behind a couple of college-aged women and a family of willowy blondes. She attempts to make conversation. 

“So, are there festivals like this where you’re from?”

“Sure.” He turns to look at her, eyes clear through the lenses of his glasses. “I guess wanting to dance and drink in the street is one thing that we all have in common.”

Abbie inclines her head in agreement. “Did you go to a lot of them?”

“Oh yes.” Crane smiles. “When I was at Oxford, I shared a flat with a man named Abraham. It had seemed that his only mission in life was to bed as many women as he possibly could.” He shakes his head. “He was a right scoundrel and women saw right through him so he was rarely successful, but as his reluctant wingman, I accompanied him to many a place he thought there might be willing women. That included festivals, it seemed.” 

Abbie smirks at him as they move up in line. “You’re saying it like you didn’t also try to pick up women.”

“I was a lot more interested in my studies, I’m afraid.”

Abbie is obviously dubious. “I don’t believe that.”

“That I was into my studies?” His eyes widen and Abbie can’t quite tell if it’s fake or not.

“No. I definitely believe that. What I don’t believe is that you weren’t a _scoundrel_ too.”

“I think that I’m offended.”

“Are you offended because it’s true?”

“I…”

“You know that you’re a flirt. You say something ridiculously complimentary, blink those pretty blue eyes and women fall all over you.”

He blushes bright red and looks down, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. But then he shifts closer, so close that she can press her forehead against his chest if she wants, so close that she can fist his shirt in her hands and bring him flush against her if she wants.

“And you?” he says and it’s near a whisper, the words cautious on his tongue. “Could I ever make you fall all over me?” 

It is in this exact instance that Abbie thinks that maybe he _could_ make her fall all over him. Because it’s there again, that feeling like she’s hot and cold at the same time, that feeling like there is something loosening in her chest, like vines or ropes or _chains_ are unbinding, attempting to disintegrate. She wonders how she’s going to respond because even she doesn’t know; every single instinct she has is frozen and she is a deer in headlights, paralyzed, fucking _stuck._

“Next,” the people at the table call and while the spell isn’t broken, it is lifted enough that Abbie can focus, enough that Abbie has the frame of mind to step back from him. She runs her hand through her hair, so flustered that she doesn’t even make a fuss when he pays for their activity tickets, merely showing her driver’s license when asked for identification in order to get a drink bracelet.

Abbie watches Crane pocket the tickets and then he turns back to her, holding out his arm for her.

“Are you ready?” he asks her.

Abbie hesitates. Their moment is gone and she knows he wouldn’t think much of it if she refused him. But something tells her not to, and so she places her hand in the crook of his elbow.

“Yeah,” she says. And just to be sure, “yeah.”

***********

She shouldn’t be, but Abbie is surprised by how much she enjoys her day with Crane. 

Later, she’ll wonder, as she pushes her ass against his pelvis ( _shit, Crane),_ as she stares up, heavy-lidded, at her gray fabric headboard, what it means that she keeps picturing the curve of his smile as they’d walked together from booth to booth, telling facts about items sold that she only cared about in his voice.

She’ll wonder, as her breath catches when he slides in to the hilt ( _fuuuuck_ ), what it means that his soft grunts are mixed with the sound of his laughter, that even now, with his hands hard on her hips, she keeps thinking about the way his fingers had brushed her arm, had caressed her palm as he held onto her hand. 

As the rush of heat floods her body, as she drips down her own thighs, she wonders what it means that she still feels the liquid fire of the drinks they’d shared, the same methane flame in his blue eyes whenever she stepped closer to him, even if just to wipe foam from his mouth.

She doesn’t know what to think, because she can’t think past the press of his front against her back, both then, when he’d stood behind her as people had moved past them, forcing them closer in the crowded streets; and now, as he holds her, one hand strumming songs on her nipples, with the sweat of his chest on her skin and his voice in her ear, ( _bloody, f-fuck, Abbie.)_

She can only think of the clench of her thighs and what it feels like to be held and fucked and caressed and _cherished._ She can only think that this might be what it feels like to be loved.

Later, when she can think again, she’ll wonder what it means that _she_ makes him push her away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all!  
> One, so sorry about the long chapter. It actually wasn't what I had intended to happen in this particular chapter, but I think my unconscious self wanted more semi-angsty interactions with them before shit hits the fan. Which is actually will next chapter.  
> I know this took a long time and I hope you aren't too disappointed after the wait. (And sorry if there are any typos!)  
> As usual, thank you so much for reading. It means so much to me, especially when I've been going through some personal challenges. Writing it getting me through.  
> Kudos or comments are always appreciated.
> 
> <3, Elle


	4. II.ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie and Crane go on a date. Sort of.

Abbie wonders if she’s broken. 

It’s been weeks since she’s had time to wonder this; she’s spent more nights than not with Crane and it’s been doing its job, distracting her from pain and fear and the overwhelming feeling of loss that billows behind her like a cape.

It is almost as if they’re a  _ thing,  _ what with the way she’s almost sure she cannot separate how her days start and end with him. It’s jarring, how wholly she hooks onto him after the Memorial Day fair and Abbie wonders if that is why she’s broken, than she cannot let herself continue to enjoy it.

Her days have been a strange amalgamation of her and work and Crane. On most mornings, she wakes up nestled against him, usually in his bed. (he’s got a memory foam mattress that practically _mold_ to her body.

plus, she loves that his sheets are always warm with him and his scent and that, she thinks, she’ll definitely miss.)

He is a deep sleeper and she gets to slip out from under him unnoticed. She also gets to watch his for long, uninterrupted moment (asleep and peaceful and beautiful), but that she never lets herself acknowledge. It is summer and Crane should be sleeping in. instead, she gets up to shower and he gets up to prepare her coffee and bagel, never without a sleepy smile.

“Crane,” she always admonishes but he only ever gazes back at her over the rim of his tea mug.

Work, she decides, makes her feel sane again, re-establishes to status quo. Her head is a little unsteady when Crane is around (and she decides that that, in part, is why she has to cut ties) and work reminds her of who she really is.

Hers is a hard job, one that is too often wrapped up in red tape and politics and thinly veiled misogyny. But Abbie gets to shut all of that out and spend her days trying to save those who others had failed. She’d failed her mom and Jenny and Corbin. She won’t fail these people too.

Nights are still a little unpredictable and Abbie is never sure what she’s going to get. She doesn’t mean Crane, because he is always there, ready to be who she needs. She, unfortunately, means herself. She teeters along a precariously balanced ledge, torn between what she knows is true and whatever story Crane spins that she’s found herself falling into.

Sometimes, she is not in the mood for his easy grin and whispered declarations,  _ you are beauty you are worthy you are a treasure.  _ On these days she will plead a headache, and lock herself in her room and remind herself that this can only end badly.

More often than not, though, these past couple weeks, she soaks in his praises, lets him soak in her, and then she starts the cycle all over again.

It is probably this that pushes it to the end. Abbie is caught up in the whirlwind that is Crane, caught up in how good he makes her feel, that she forgets. She is distracted by his deep voice and his wandering hands, and she forgets that it isn’t fair that they can’t do it too. And when she finally does wake up and remember, guilt consumes her.

********

The guilt starts the night of the festival, but it begins to take shape on a Saturday afternoon in late June.

The social sciences and history professors at Sleepy Hollow U have decided that the best way to up morale within the university is to have a party. When Crane asks her to accompany them, they’re lying naked in his bed. His head is on her belly and her fingers are tracing patterns in his scalp. There is music playing and Crane is alternately humming along to Aretha Franklin,  _ You send me (you got everything it takes to win me);You send me (and when you do the things you do),  _ and softly groaning at her ministrations. She’s nearly asleep, sated from sex and lulled by the sound of his voice. 

“The university is having a party in an attempt to boost morale,” he says and she doesn’t pay attention to the words past the way they rumble against her stomach. “You should accompany me.”

The music still plays, a soft  _ lilting  _ melody, horns and  _ yearning  _ and the expressive hum of the keys. She doesn’t say anything, hands still tangled in his soft brown hair, and moments later, he turns his face to look her way. He follows his line of sight up her belly, past her bare breasts, until they lock eyes.

“What?”

She hears him the first time, but she needs a minute to process, to decide if this is something she wants to agree to. His gaze on her is steady and it’s odd **,** her body’s reaction: the thrum of longing that settles between her thighs; the thrum of longing that settles in her heart.

He curls his fingers around her waist and it does the trick of getting her attention again. He presses a kiss to her stomach.

“I do believe you hear me,” he murmurs against her skin. “Be my guest”

“Isn’t it just a university thing?” she stalls.

He seems to recognize that and he gives her a smile, indulging her. “Yes, but guests are encouraged. Typical plus ones for events such as this, spouses, partners...you.”

The tone of his voice shifts.

“Me?” she near whispers.

“You defy labels.”

Abbie’s instinct is to roll her eyes. But she doesn’t, because there is the soft jazz playing and the distracting feel of his hands on her, and the loaded look in his eyes.

It’s confounding and just as she opens her mouth to decline, he moves to press another kiss to her belly. This kiss is wet, open-mouthed and sloppy. It makes her shiver and Crane plants a big hand at her waist to still her. He kisses at her stomach more, nipping and biting at her skin as he moves up, up.

When he circles a nipple with the tip of his tongue, Abbie lets out a long, too-easy sigh. He traces her with the hard tip of his tongue before laving at her with the flat of his tongue, before closing his lips around her to  _ suck.  _ His hand on her waist does its own thing, dallies there for a moment before tracing indiscernible patterns as they glide up her torso. She wriggles beneath him, writhes under the assault of his tongue and his fingers and  _ him  _ when he covers her with the length of him.

She decides to look up at him, because Crane in the throws of passion is her favorite sight, and she isn’t disappointed by how his hair waves over his ears and how his eye are that navy color she thinks is the prettiest color blue she’s ever seen.

And she’s so  _ wet _ . God, it’s ridiculous how easily he does it for her: his hands and his mouth and the sound of his voice as he whispers sweet  _ somethings  _ against her skin.

When he slides into her, hot and solid and filling, she moans loud and low, her face pressed into his neck. She’s still a little sore from earlier and he smells like sandalwood and sex and mint, and a little like her too. And she’s so full of him, his body pressing her into the mattress, their bodies still faintly sweaty from their earlier sessions, that her eyes roll in the back of her head. 

She loves it when they’re close like this, her legs wrapped firmly around his waist, his hands clutching at her. Her hands glide up and down his back, feeling the strain of the muscles as he pushes into her. He  moves a hand to cup her ass, and the angle is  _ spectacular;  _ it drives him deeper, drives her crazier.  _ “God, Crane.” _

When she comes, it’s a surprise. There is little build-up, other than the constant pleasure that courses through her. One minute, she’s digging her nails into his back, the next he’s thumbing her clit, and then she’s coming, clenching her sex around him, moaning deep in the back of her throat. He strokes her through it, chasing his own, until he stiffens above her, her name on his tongue.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he braces himself on an elbow and gazes down at her, pushing a few strands of curls out of her face.

“Accompany me to the gathering,” he pleads again.

She doesn’t want to ponder too long what makes her give him a ghost of a smile and whisper, “sure.”

She thinks his smile is worth it.

But, as she stands outside of the board room which she presumes has been decorated for this event, she wonders if maybe this is giving in too much to Crane, if this is setting the stage for a path that will only end in pain.

She had to work today so she’s taken her clothes to change into with her to the office. It’d taken her much too long to find something she found appropriate, something that would flatter her and appease the pretentious people Crane works with. In the back of her closet, she’d found a mid-length shirt dress with the tags still on. It had been an impulse buy, a dress she had tried on when out shopping for work clothes. She’d ended up buying because she really liked the look of it on her. It was flattering, made of a sort of gauzy material that managed not to be see-through. It fit closely to the top of her, adhering to her shape before falling over her hips elegantly, hemming just under her knees. There were small pearl buttons on the front of the dress to the waist and the pair of pearl gray heels, a single strip across the toes and a strap around the ankle, completed the outfit.

It hadn’t crossed her mind that she would have to walk through the office until she had to do it. She has done a great job of keeping her personal life and her professional life two separate and distinct entities (with the exception of her friendship with Irving) and this Agent Mills, this  _ Abigail _ , is an anomaly to them.

When she walks out of the restroom, she gets various reactions. Several of the men wolf whistle, Johnson yelling out, “Dang, Mills!” One of the four women who work in the department, Sophie Foster, gives her a kind smile, and Abbie ignores the jeers bouncing off of her until she comes to a stop in front of Irving.

“Hot date?” he asks her, hands stuffed into his front pocket, an amused expression on his face.

“Um, no,” Abbie mutters, and then frowns at her fidgetiness. “They’re having some sort of party for the staff at SHU and uh, Crane invited me.”

If Irving is surprised, he doesn’t make any indication of being so. He does lift an eyebrow, though, and it’s in more of an exploratory manner, as if he’s studying her.

“What?” she snaps, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Nothing, Mills.” He steps aside to let her pass. “You look good. Enjoy your night.”

And then he  _ smirks, _ and Abbie rushes out of the building.

********

Now, she’s standing just outside the elevators, one hand at her waist, the other fiddling with the silver necklace at her throat. She doesn’t know how long she hides out there before she hears the ping of the elevator behind her and then the sound of a group of women laughing as they step off.

Before they have a chance to ask her if she’s lost, or, alternately, losing her shit, Abbie walks through the propped-opendoor. The department has gone all out. There is already a band set up and playing something upbeat near the front corner of the room. In front of that space is a makeshift dance floor, though no one is on it yet. The majority of the people are either at the bar or milling around, talking to one another.

She doesn’t immediately see Crane so she makes her way to the bar. She gets a few curious glances as she moves through the space, at various degrees of interest. She’s always been good at maneuvering places unbothered, so she just smiles and nods until she gets to the bar.

She finds that beer and wine are free, though harder drinks are available for a price, and she settles on a glass of Chianti, the deep red of the wine matching the lipstick she’d applied last minute in her car. She puts the glass to her lips and takes a swallow, letting the warmth of the alcohol flood through her. The wine is good and she smiles a little, thinking that maybe now she can look for Crane. Maybe now she won’t drown in the implication of being here tonight.

She hears him before she sees him, maybe even _feels_ him, but that’s a line of thinking she won’t follow too closely. In any case, she turns a half step to her right and there he is.

Since Abbie and Crane have been doing this, she’s felt lust in varying degrees, sometimes falling into his bed to abate her own loneliness, other times because he looks  _ good  _ as he walks around the house in gray sweatpants and facial hair.

Seeing him in his own element is something altogether different. There have been few times that Abbie has seen Crane uncomfortable, but here with the people he works with, people who possibly match his wit, people who share his interests, he  _ thrives.  _ He is presently laughing at something the man next to him is saying, a hearty laugh, one that has him holding his belly and throwing his head back. The two women standing with them are positively tickled too. The one closest to him, a petite thing with dark hair styled in loose curls wearing a form-fitting black dress, has her hand on Crane’s forearm, fingers curved over his skin as she grins up at him.

Abbie cannot blame her. She sees exactly what this woman sees: Crane with soft brown hair that curls just above his ears; blue eyes that somehow nearly twinkle in this lighting; Crane with a neatly trimmed beard that adds something almost _primal_ to his sophistication; tapered navy slacks and fitted baby blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows in deference to the heat.

She takes another sip of her wine, pauses a minute to fan herself, and then makes her way over. She knows for sure that he cannot hear her steps on the wooden floors, but it is as if he senses her and he turns his head abruptly when she’s still a couple feet away. She continues closer and when she’s within earshot, he breathes, “Abigail.”

His cerulean eyes trail her from the tip of her toes to the very top of her head. It is not so different from how he normally looks at her, but somehow, in front of all these people, it feels more private, a little more intimate. It makes her feel, in equal parts, horrified and debauched, and she makes a fist with her free hand, nails biting into her skin to keep her from either bolting from the room or  _ jumping  _ him.

“Oh and who is this?”

Abbie is saved from having to make that decision when the man next to her speaks up. She manages to drag her attention away from Crane, eyes flickering up to catch his again ( _ his expression makes her shudder _ ) before they settle on the man.

Crane waves a hand in her direction, long fingers splayed as if presenting royalty. “Agent Abigail Mills, these are my colleagues, Dr. Zoe Corinth, Dr. Mary Wells, and Professor Andy Brooks.”

Andy’s eyes brighten. “Abigail,” he says, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Please call me Abbie.” She gives him a smile. “And it’s nice to meet you too. And you ladies as well.”

They smile politely. Well, no. Mary Wells sort of glares, and Zoe Corinth is a bit too appraising, and Andy is looking at her with a strange mix of lust and confusion. She doesn’t understand the “confusion” until she sees him look up at Crane, and then at Abbie, head tilted.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says finally, giving her a wide grin.

“Oh?” she says, eyebrow raised, because though she has heard Crane speak of these people, a lot would be a stretch.

And she wonders exactly what he’s heard. Unbidden, Abbie’s eyes flutter up to meet Crane’s and she finds he’s already watching her.

“Well, I hope it’s been good things,” she mumbles, still watching Crane watch her. This is why she hears more than sees Andy’s smirk when he replies, “supremely.”

It takes a moment to catch what he says. She is so caught up in Crane, his long fingers wrapped gracefully around his glass, his body long and lean in his suit. It makes her head swim, that and how his eyes seem to study her face, tracing the shape of her eyes, of her face, of the curve of her mouth. She thinks that Zoe shifts beside her and it catches her attention. She shifts on her own feet.

“What’d you say?” she asks Andy.

“Only that he says  _ supremely  _ good things about you. And that…”

“And Abigail,” Crane jumps in, standing straighter. “How about I show you around?”

Andy grins wildly at the two of them. Crane takes a step to move beside her. He has to move past Zoe and Mary to do so and they both stare at her as he moves.

Abbie is not an idiot and understands how these women seem to feel about Crane. She is not surprised that these two--who are pretty and must obviously be smart--have decided that he should be one of theirs, though Abbie wonders how they would navigate that were he to choose one over the other. She shoves that thought away because he hasn’t. That much she can tell by the way they continue to radiate envy.

She contemplates telling them that he’s still not  _ hers,  _ even though it feels like it when he’s close enough that he brushes against her. It’s like watching him with that woman at Ellington’s again, how green had seemed to coat everything she saw. But it’s different now because this is something like a date--and, here,  _ he looks like he’s hers _ \-- and whatever fear or apprehension that Abbie is feeling is taking a back burner to how close he is to her, and how  _ good  _ he smells, and how she’s been suppressing thoughts of him all day.

When he grabs a hold of her free hand, fingers entwined with hers, she blinks up at him.

“Let me show you around?” he asks again and she nods, the action happening with no real permission from her. She eyes the rest of the party.

“It was a pleasure to meet you all,” she tells them again.

“It was all mine,” Andy smiles at her.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” Zoe mumbles.

Mary merely inclines her head.

Crane grabs her hand and she walks with him. He leads her past a couple tables and back towards the bar where there is only one other person. Everyone else seems to be congregating at the bar to the front. As they get to the bar, the man who’d been standing there grabs his drink and leaves. Crane moves into the space and places his glass on the counter, beckoning the bartender for another. When he questions Abbie with a tick of his eyebrow, she notices she’s only got a sip or two left and she nods. He orders for her too.

Then, he steps closer to her where she’s leaning against the counter, crowding her, touching lightly at her waist.

“Hi,” he speaks softly. His lips quirk up just a little, at odds with the all-consuming way he keeps watching her. It makes her face heat up, cheeks warm, and Abbie is grateful for her brown skin. 

“Hey,” she responds, and she thinks that the look she gives him might match his.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, fingers still at her waist. He’s barely touching her, his fingertips grazing more of her dress than her. But she leans into it, into him, and it’s probably inappropriate how this looks, him here with her like this, around all the people he works with. (Still, she cannot make herself step away.)

“You’re welcome,” she tells him, drinking the rest of the wine in her glass. She’s able to swap it out for her new glass, the pours are not very generous, when the bartender returns with their drinks.

“Thank you, Timothy,” Crane says, giving the man a kind smile. Then he turns back to Abbie.

“How long have Dr. Corinth and Dr. Wells been trying yo get into your pants?” It definitely isn’t what she’d opened her mouth to say. Crane, for his part, is just as shocked as she is. So much so that he chokes on his drink.

“Pardon?”

“I’m sure you heard me,” she says, but it is not unkind.

“Yes, but I…”

Abbie raises her glass to her lips. Crane walks absently at his mouth, standing a little taller. Abbie lifts her brow, waiting.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“No?”

“We are merely co-workers and friends.”

“Hmmm.” Abbie hums and tilts her head. “Are you always this oblivious?”

Crane seems to think about it, brows furrowed. Then, he tells her, “only in the same way that you are.”

This makes Abbie pause, glass poised to her lips. She brings it back down to hover around her middle. He’s bolder now, Abbie has noticed, in his declarations. He whispers lovely things against her skin when they’re in bed together and he speaks with his hands when he touches her, and he doesn’t avert his eyes when feelings that look too much like admiration color his expressions.

Abbie compartmentalizes; she takes in what she can and what can’t handle, she locks away in a box somewhere that she cannot access. She does that now, lifting her glass in a gesture that says “touche,” but otherwise not acknowledging his words.

“You wanted to show me your office?” she mumbles instead.

Crane eases out of the look he’s giving her, standing taller **,** and he nods.

“Yes, of course.”

She thinks he’s about to hold out his hands for her to grab. In fact, she’s sure of it when she sees his hand reach out, fingers spread; but then he decides against it, clenching his hands into a fist. He holds out his elbow to her instead.

She settles her arm in the crook of his elbow and they start towards the door. They make it about halfway before they are stopped.

The man who stops them is older with deep grooves in his face and a pair of wire framed glasses perched on his nose.

“Dr. Parrish,” Crane greets, smiling amiably. “Good evening.”

“Evening, Ichabod,” he returns the smile before turning a gaze to Abbie. “Henry Parrish,” he says holding out his hand for her to shake. I’m the Dean of the History Department.”

She smiles as she grabs the other man’s hands to shake. She figures there is something important here; this is his boss. Still, she’s unsure of what to make of him and a glance up at Crane’s expressionless face proves unhelpful.

“Nice to meet you,” Abbie speaks.

“I’m pleased to meet you as well, Agent Mills”

Parrish notices her confusion about the formal address **.** “Dr. Crane speaks highly of you.”

Her hand on his elbow squeezes, and she bites at her lip, if only to stop herself from saying something like, “well, no, he’s the extraordinary one here.”

They talk to him for a few moments more, somehow agreeing to meet up later in the summer for dinner and drinks. They get stopped a couple more times by people who, Abbie now sure, only want to meet her.

It makes her question what Crane has said about her, about their relationship. She knows that the way Crane feels about the people who work alongside him is much deeper than her own, that he talks with them about who he is outside of their pretty little building. But who do they think she is?

Abbie, on some level, wants to stop curious glances, wants to make certain that these people know that whatever she and Crane are, it does not warrant the thinly veiled questions to address the who and what and why of her.

But then she sees how Mary Wells eyes run the length of Crane’s long frame; and how Dr. Corinth leans into him when he speaks; and how Jane Wimberly, some woman who teaches Art History, laughs at  _ every fucking thing  _ that he says. And Abbie stands a little closer, holds onto his arm a little tighter, and then she thinks maybe it doesn’t matter what he’s told them, only what it appears.

Music carries them to the elevator, Abbie’s arm still on his. They’re quiet until they reach the 5th floor, where she assumes his classroom is located. He leads her down a long hallway and she looks around, reminiscing on her own college experience. By college, there was just her and Jenny, though Corbin was something of an adjacent figure. Jenny was still in high school for three years of it, and so college was spent doing homework alongside Jenny and working long days at her work study job in the office of the campus police station, or picking up random shifts at Maybel’s Diner. She’d worked her ass off in high school to get a scholarship, although many had thought her lack of proper parentage had meant she might not amount to much. But she’d had decent, if not painfully temporary, foster parents, and by 10th grade, she’d known Corbin who had kept her on the straight and narrow.

Crane pauses at a door at the end of the hall. Abbie drinks another small swallow of her wine and waits while Crane unlocks the door to his office. It looks a lot like Crane, old school and comfortable. It smells like him too, and Abbie inhales involuntarily. She clutches the glass in her hand and steps away from him a little, smoothing the front of her dress down.

“So this is where the great Dr. Crane prepares to mold the future leaders of America?”

He lets out an attractive snort. “I sincerely doubt I do so much as all that.”

“Hmm.” It’s amazing, she thinks, how little he recognizes the influence he has on others. (something else calls her a kettle.)

She moves across the room, shoes sinking into the carpet as she does. The room is decidedly him: open and comfortable, with warm painting and vases full of fresh flowers. It makes even Abbie feel a little settles and she likes it, this room.

“I think I would have liked it here,” Abbie says, and it comes out a bit melancholy, “if I’d had more professors like you.”

Crane gives her a half smile that’s both indulgent and kind.

“What was it like when you were here?” he questions, after some moments of silence.

She doesn’t answer right away. First, she settles into one of the cozy looking chairs that sit in front of his desk. She crosses her legs and rearranges her dress, causing the length of her right leg to show. She knows she doesn’t imagine how he follows the motion. He takes a seat beside her, resting his still full glass on the mahogany desk.

“College was alright,” she tells him. “It just wasn’t an experience, not the way it is for other 18 year olds fresh out of high school. Jenny was in high school and Corbin had helped me get guardianship of her. And I was working on campus and at the diner, because bills, so there were no parties of clubs or unscheduled hang outs with friends.

“Did you feel like you missed out on a lot?”

Flashes of past Abbie and Jenny cross her mind: yelling matches, harsh words spewed in anger and frustration, in the sort of doe-eyed hopefulness that came from two teenagers trying to look out for one another.

“I did,” she answers. “Most of the time, Jenny and I were fine. Good even. But I was a kid. I’d get so frustrated because it didn’t seem fair at the time, me having to take care of her when I was so young.”

“That’s because it wasn’t fair,” Crane urges her to understand.

“Yeah, well, I’d do anything to be back at that table with Jenny arguing about her doing homework.”

She assumes he doesn’t have an answer for that because he doesn’t respond. Abbie feels relieved that he doesn’t push it. She feels strangely upset that he doesn’t.

She shakes her head, carding a hand through her kinky curls. Then she abruptly stands up, Crane jumping a little at the action. 

“Let’s talk about something a little less sad,” she suggests.

He inclines his head, deferring to her. 

“So I know you didn’t always want to be a teacher. Do you think you made the right decision going into academics?”

He gives her the soft smile he gets whenever he talks about his job. “Absolutely,” he says.”I think I’ve always loved talking about academics with people, history and the social aspects of the world. Teaching is a lot like that. It’s not always talking at students; it’s interacting with them and learning about the way they see the world and comparing them with my own.”

Abbie smiles at him, always struck by his passion. “That’s how I know you’re a good teacher,” she tells him, “because you say things like that.”

His cheeks redden a little bit from the praise. 

“It is the same with you,” Crane deflects. “When you do deem to talk about your work, there’s such a passion in your voice that I’m glad it’s you working to keep our country safe.”

It’s Abbie’s turn to turn her face in pleased embarrassment. They fall silent, though it isn’t uncomfortable.

“Come with me,” he requests suddenly. “I want to show you something.”

He holds a hand out for her to grab, fingers spread wide. She lifts her gaze to his briefly before slotting her fingers into the empty spaces. She steps beside him, attempting to keep pace with his long strides as he leads her out of the room.

They walk down the long hallway until they get to a push door that leads to a staircase. He steers them up.

“Where are you taking me?” Abbie asks, skeptical, though she grips his hand tighter.

“Do you trust me?” he asks her.

Something about the way he says it, too casual and too sincere, makes her pause. He looks back at her, eyes wide, and she tries for levity.

“Well, I did until you just asked.”

Crane shakes his head and lets out a snort. “We’re almost there,” he assures her.

Soon, they come to the end of their ascent and it’s then that Abbie realizes that they are going to the roof. He opens the door that leads outside and, hands still clutching hers, he props a lone brick up against the door to keep it from closing. Then he pulls her all the way out onto the roof.

For a long time, Abbie had thought that the only way to succeed meant getting out of Sleepy Hollow. She’d always thought it was a place where dreams stayed to die. After school, after Quantico, she and Jenny had planned to move to the city, or D.C., and they were going to be different, be new, be people other than little sad, orphaned Abigail and Jennifer Mills.

Quanitico had happened, and then Corbin had died, and then Jenny had gotten sick, and every ounce of their savings had gotten eaten by medical bills. She couldn’t think about leaving Jenny, about being Abbie where Jenny couldn’t be, so she requested a stay at the Sleepy Hollow office, strange as it was that there was an office here. (She’d realized later the absolute shit that people get into here.)

She’s reminded that, in the five years since she’s been back and the three years since Jenny’s been gone, a strange veil has settled over her view of the town, a sort of haze through which she views her world. When she steps onto that roof, she thinks that haze dissipates, if only just a little. They are only a few stories up, but the air feels cleaner, crisper. The stars literally twinkle, bright lights dotting the blanket of dark velvet sky.

“Do you come up here to get away from the students?”

He gives her hands a small squeeze, smiling down at her. “It is very much a sanctuary for the entire department.”

He squeezes her hand again and then leads her further onto the roof. They round a corner, and then Abbie gasps. They have created an actual sanctuary of sorts. It is a garden, complete with large planters full of vibrant flowers arranged around a couple of white wicker two-chair tables. At the edge of the make-shift garden is an outdoor sectional, the same wicker white with baby blue cushions.

“Dr. Parrish is something of a gardener,” Crane explains. “He makes sure this stays nice and cozy for us all year-round.”

“Nice,” she mutters, no other words coming to mind. She’s still awed.

Her mother had loved flowers; they’d had a beautiful garden in their backyard and her mother would rise early just to attend to them. Her mother would always say that flowers were the way she wishes people were: they respond to nourishment, to care; they are conditional only in the environment you envelop them in. Abbie hadn’t, and doesn’t, agree. She thinks that flowers are just as temperamental as everyone else. 

Still, she’d loved how happy they’d made her mother and she lets herself smile now as she steps through the garden. She looks up as she hears his footsteps beside her.

“So do you bring all of your dates here?” she asks. She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, unsure that she’s heading for the couch until she stops to sit on it.

“Um, no,” he stammers a little, cheeks a bit pink, a large hand rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “You're the first person I've brought up here." He turns to her. "And is this a date?”

She has no immediate answer. She knows that the comfort that Crane has ( _ is _ ) providing has become something more than late nights wrapped up in one another. Somehow they’ve become a  _ they _ , in a shaky dance of talking and sex and hiding and learning and faltering and  _ touching. _

But date implies intention and she can’t seem to make it work in her head, no matter how much she like falling into his eyes, into the warmth of his body. Because she knows where things like this leads. Pain.

She still doesn’t give him a verbal answer, shrugging a linen clad shoulder before scooting closer to him. He throws an arm over her shoulder.

“One day,” he says, planting a kiss at her temple, “I’ll get you to tell me what you’re thinking.”

Abbie hums because telling him that that isn’t true feels like an unnecessarily blatant lie; instead she just leans into him.

“What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?” His question is shocking, but it is an easy one to answer.

“Senior year,” she tells him. “Jason Lewis. He was late to pick me up. When he finally did get me, we went bowling. He was so competitive that I ended up yelling at him in front of a lot of people and he never wanted to go out with me after.”

They share a laugh, Abbie deep enough in her memories that it comes back to her.

“What about you?” she wonders.

He gives her a small smile. “It was with Katrina, actually.”

Abbie’s eyes widen. “Really?”

He nods. “We’d met through my college friend Abraham, actually. He had set us up and even though she agreed to go, she thought I was his sort. She was a bit combative throughout the date and got downright mean when I tried to pay for the meal.”

“How’d she become your wife then?”

“We ran in the same circles. Started spinning more time together. Learned each other for real.”

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. She wants to ask him how it ended, why, but she doesn’t want to put a damper on their evening. Instead she leans closer, placing a hand on his thigh.

The air is humid on her skin and he’s hard pressed into her. The heady scent of roses mixes with the overwhelming scent of him and Abbie feels a little like her senses are overloaded, especially as he touches her, the hand pitched over her shoulder making slow, lazy circles on her arms.

“And if this were, in fact, a date, where would you take me next?”

His fingers momentarily pause on her arm, halfway through whatever shape he was making. She doesn’t look at him while she waits for his responds and it seems like ages before he resumes touching her.

“Sushi,” he tells her finally. “I’d take you to dinner at the place down the street, on 5th Avenue. And then we’d take a stroll through Anderson Park over to that little place you like, with the live music on the patio.

“And then?” Abbie wonders, though she still hasn’t looked him in the eyes yet.

“And then,” he nearly whispers as he stops touching her again. She feels momentarily bereft, until he shifts towards her and takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I’d take you home, strip you naked, and fuck you until you could only breathe my name.”

_ Jesus Christ. _

Her core clenches at his words and she presses her thighs together as her tongue swipes out to wet her lips. His eyes flicker to flow the gesture and Abbie doesn’t even think she gets her next breath out before his lips rare on hers, wet and warm and soft. He grabs her at her waist, squeezing once as he prods her mouth open with his tongue.

He tastes good, like the scotch he’d been drinking earlier and the faintly minted sweetness that’s him. She tries to focus on the slip and slide of his tongue, how he licks into her mouth like he’s trying to taste all of her. But she needs  _ more,  _ more of his hands on her, more of the feel of him pressed against her, so she breaks the kiss for just a second to climb into his lap.

The near growl he makes at her temporary loss of contact makes her grin, but then she’s settling against the lean hardness of him, her dress bunched around her hips.

“ _ Bloody, _ ” he mumbles low in his throat before he grabs at her hips, on her bare skin, before sliding her against his groin and kissing her again. It’s like the first they kissed all over again, well, the second, the exploratory one, with hands and teeth and tongue. With soft nibbles on her lips. With  _ savoring,  _ closed eyes and smiles and the feeling that Abbie never wants to let go.

But she does and it’s to ask him, “Can this be a date?”

His smile is dazzling.

********

They head downstairs and Crane asks her for a moment to say good-bye to his colleagues. It only takes a few moments and when he returns to her, she figures it’s because there are very faint traces of lipstick on his mouth and they’ve probably made assumptions about why he’s actually taking his leave.

Her smile is faintly amused as she reaches up to wipe at his bottom lip.

“Lipstick,” she explains when he lifts an eyebrow, and Abbie full out grins when he goes red. “That’s probably why they were okay with you leaving so early.”

If possible, Crane blushes harder.

It’s cute,  _ so fucking endearing _ , that Abbie can’t stop herself from leaning up and pressing a quick kiss tohis mouth. When she pulls back, she misses the way Crane smiles at her because her eyes flicker and meets Dr. Zoe’s from across the room.

Abbie inclines her head at her, and then turns to let Crane lead her out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen y'all... teaching 8th grade full time and going to gradute school at the same time is ridiculously time consuming. If you're still interested in this story, thank you for being patient and taking the time out to read this chapter. I really appreciate it.
> 
> I hope you liked it. It wasn't what I meant to write, but it happened. Something told me that Abbie and Crane needed a little more conversation. I promise the real angst is coming and I hope it's both as devastating and glorious as I think it'll be. 
> 
> Until next time (which I hope won't be another four months), Elle <3
> 
> (P.S: per usual, all typos are my fault.)


	5. III.i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie and Crane go public.

One date leads to another date. And then another. And then Abbie is almost certain they’re something like a _thing._

Abbie likes to think that it happened by accident, but in reality she knows that those blue eyes pleading for her to follow him to the ends of the earth are the reason she acquiesces and allows him to take her out again.

She’d thought of their first one for days afterward, at moments that made no sense. She’d been distracted and jumpy and so goddamn horny she’d barely been able to breathe. At work, she would remember the sneaky slide of his hand as they’d sat at the bar, his touch both calming and exhilarating. In her car, she would remember the blaze of his eyes as he’d sat beside her at the club, the thrum of the drums heavy in her chest. He’d barely spared a glance at the band as they’d played, content to watch her dancing in her seat and imagining what would happen later, when strong drinks and humid heat and his roaming hands led her to his bed that night. As she’d gone for her morning jogs, she would think about the glide of his tongue inside her body, the press of his fingers against her hips, of his mouth on hers, hard and unrelenting, saying things she’d absolutely fall into if she were a different person. At night, wrapped up in his warmth, she’d wonder what might happen if she let herself explore this, if she allowed herself to fall into Crane and accept everything he’s offering.

He takes her bowling the next time they go out, attempting to recreate her first dating experience, make it more enjoyable. It is, because Abbie beats Crane handily, though he swears he let her win. They have one too many cheap beers and an order of bowling alley nachos and it makes Abbie’s head swim, how much fun she has. The next time, they go hiking in Niagara Falls. It’s a beautiful day when they do, warm and sunny, the air crisp. That one doesn’t feel like a date until Crane stops her along the trail, yanks her leggings down, and fucks her against a tree. Another time, they take a day trip to the city, as neither of them go very often; he feeds her at some expensive restaurant and they walk through Central Park as they people watch. There is even a caricature to document the day.

It’s been such a fucking whirlwind that Abbie doesn’t know how she feels, doesn’t know what to do. The thoughts lead her to one of two places. In one moment, she thinks that it, that they, could work. Her inability to express herself would somehow not keep them from faltering. _Oh_ , she could picture it so clearly, their laughs and sex and good food. He would be exactly what she’s never even known she’s wanted, she’s needed: staunch in his love for her; open in his desire; steadfast in that he’d always be there.

But just as easily as she can see that, she can see their arguments, tense with words she spews too easily in anger, words he’s too good to say aloud. She’d push him until he did and then he’d walk away, steadily and with relief. There’d be too many nights of sex and only sex, none of the laughing they do, none of the talking that defined their friendship first.

It’s all so convoluted and she wants nothing more than to go back to how they’d been before, before she’d decided to ruin it because she was sad and lonely and hadn’t been held in so long that she’d practically mauled him. Because at least then she would know where they stood and the possibility of him leaving would still be an abstract concept and not a concrete inevitability.

************

The fourth or fifth time (or sixth or seventh--she’s somehow lost count) they go out, it’s swimming with the Irvings and company. It’s them, truly, in the light of day.

She gets off early on a Friday in early July; apparently it’s too hot even for criminals, because there’s a temporary lull in cases. She drives home on autopilot, NPR playing on the radio though she’s barely paying any attention to it, her windows open to let the hot sun and wind in. Days like this bring people out. As she travels through the center of town, away from the FBI office and into her own neighborhood, she sees the sidewalks full of people, kids riding around on bicycles, electric scooters, those scooter type things that are like skateboards with motor wheels. Parents sit on porches drinking bottled beers, paying only a bit of attention to their kids. Abbie passes one house where a group of college-aged kids are jumping around in swimsuits, engaging in some sort of drinking game that involves a slip and slide and a table full of red cups.

It reminds her of summer days with Jenny. They’d spend a lot of time at the community pool, especially during Abbie's early college days. She’d sit around on a lounge chair to keep watch of Jenny, to make sure she didn’t drown or flirt too much. The latter was a lost cause, flirting seemed to be a distinct part of her sister’s personality, and the memory makes her smile in a way that thinking of Jenny hasn’t in a long time.

That feeling carries as she makes her way home, parking in the driveway beside Crane’s truck. He isn’t in the front room when she walks in, and she uses the time to decompress. She grabs a beer from the fridge and ventures into her bathroom where she runs the shower, turning the knob to a temperature more warm than hot, as it’s so hot outside. Door still half open, she peels herself out of her clothes, placing her gun on the bathroom counter.

She chugs half of the beer before she steps under the spray of the water. She isn’t sure how long she’s in there--leisurely cleaning her body, washing her face, keeping the water from her hair--when she hears the faint creak of the door opening. She doesn’t hear the rustle of clothes over the rush of the water, but in only moments, the shower curtain widens and she feels Crane’s overwhelming presence.

This, this new foray into intimacy is something only recent, in the weeks since their first date. The first time, she’d asked him to join, feeling lighthearted after hours spent writhing in his bed. He’s come into her shower a couple of times after that, and each time, Abbie feels something else loosen inside her, feels her legs weaken, feels her heart mending itself a little bit more.

She doesn’t turn immediately. She lets him close the distance between them, his body hot as he presses against her back, his sex fitted snugly against the curve of her ass. It’s only when he wraps a hand around her waist that she mumbles, “hi.”

“Hello,” he mumbles in her ear.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she quips and her belly tightens at the smile that curves against her ear.

“You’re home early.”

“We had a pretty easy day. No new cases right now.”

He nods, moving to grab the loofah from her hand. They aren’t directly under the spray of the water and he slides the loofah from her left shoulder, down to her breasts. He kneads them, circling one nipple with the rough material until it hardens, before moving to the next one. He runs along the center of her belly, and Abbie’s breathing hitches, pushing herself harder into him, delighting in the feel of his other hand solid on her hip. 

Crane keeps moving, until he comes to the apex of her thighs. 

“Spread for me,” he whispers, and she does, complying without complaint. He drops the loofah and then his hands are on her, wet and soapy from holding the loofah, warm because it’s Crane and he always is, gentle even when his calluses are rough on her skin. His two middle fingers slide straight through her center, past her clit to open her up. He slides into her. 

She drops her head back onto his shoulder, exposing her neck, and he plants a soft kiss on her skin. “I missed you today,” he tells her, moving his fingers in and out of her. She bites a her bottom lip to stifle a moan before she wonders,

“Yeah?”

Crane hums. “I was trying to work on my syllabus, but all I could do was picture you on top of my desk, your legs spread wide for me, your wet cunt in my mouth.”

Abbie does moan this time, the sound low in her throat. Her back arches against him and the move slides his fingers deeper.

“I-I’ve never been on your-your desk,” she pants.

“No,” he agrees, pressing his forefinger against her clit. “But we should remedy that.”

He continues his onslaught, nimble fingers playing in her sex, using her slick to rub on her clit. If it hadn’t felt so good, she might have been embarrassed at how fast she came. Alas, when she explodes against his hand, all she can do is turn when he urges her to and fall into the kiss he gives her. He brings her to him, palms one of her ass cheeks in his hand to hold her close. His other fingers grip lightly at her throat. The kiss is explosive, hard and urgent, his tongue invading her mouth with the contradictingly sloppy precision that makes her knees buckle. They kiss for a long while, or maybe just for a second. All Abbie knows is that it’s long enough for it to appear again, that hot and cold feeling that is so prevalent when she’s touching him. She’s so wound up, _he_ gets her so wound up, that sometimes, it hurts. She pulls away first, but she stays close to him, shutting her eyes as he plants a chaste kiss to her forehead.

When she finally catches her breath, she looks up at him. His hair is damp from the steam of the shower, his eyes clear as he smiles down at her.

“What was that about?” she asks.

His shrug is delicate. “Wanted to say hello.”

“Hell of a hello.”

At that, he actually grins. “I also wanted to ask you something.”

Abbie lifts her eyebrow, head tilted in query. “And you didn’t want to wait until I was done showering?”

“I thought you might be more amenable if you…” He licks his lips as he thinks of a word, “if you were relaxed.”

Her eyes narrow. “What is it?”

“It is nothing to fear,” he rushes to say, holding his hands up. “I was just on the telephone with Frank, and he has decided to open up his pool for the evening. He says he is going to grill hamburgers and hot dogs, supply some beer.”

“Irving is having a pool party?” 

“Yes. He has invited a few of your colleagues and wanted to see if I could convince you to go.”

“And why didn’t he just ask me at work?”

Crane runs a hand through his hair. “He thought you might say no. Your aversion to seeing any of your coworkers outside of the office seems well documented.”

Abbie rolls her eyes, even though she knows that’s true, and opens the curtain to step out. She grabs her large towel and wraps it around her waist before turning to shut off the water. 

“And you thought fingering me was the way to get me to agree?”

Crane still stands there, half wet and half hard, watching her. “Well, did it work?” he asks.

When she looks at him, he’s giving her something like a smile, his eyes sparkling **.**

“You said there’d be beer, right?”

“Yes. I will even drive and you can drink til your heart’s content.”

She rolls her eyes again. “Alright, smooth talker, I’ll go.”

It’s always his answering grin that makes these things worth it.

************

True to his word, a few hours later, Abbie finds herself seated in the passenger seat of Crane’s truck, wearing a black t-shirt dress over a swimsuit she’s ashamed to say she didn’t even know she owned. It’s a strappy thing, showing way more skin than it actually covers, and she can only think that it was something Jenny had bought her years ago, in her quest to get Abbie to walk around in more than her work clothes. 

Beside her, Crane is in a pair of plain black swim trunks, a white t-shirt covering his chest. A spare bottle of whiskey they’d found in their cupboard sits in her bag on the floor. The truck is silent, except for the faint sounds of Ella Fitzgerald in the background. It’s always been a little amusing to Abbie, how much Crane loves the blues singer. She’s belting away, _summertime and the livin’ is easy,_ and just those lyrics settle Abbie, makes her breathe a little bit deeper, a little bit easier.

She likes that people are still out and about, taking advantage of the longer days, the humid heat, the sense of excitability that seems to always permeate summertime. It’s a giddy sort of feeling, silly and careless, the type of nights that end in impulsive actions and whimsical nostalgia. She hasn’t had a night, a _day,_ like that in ages and Abbie decides she’s long overdue. This one won’t hurt her. And, if it does, she’ll just add it to the extensive list of her pains. 

Irving and Cynthia live in a renovated farm house out on the edge of town. It’s painted a pretty egg shell blue with white trim and hunter green shutters and it’s so painstakingly domestic that Abbie gets a little bit of anxiety every time she comes here.

Several cars litter the front yard, some she recognizes from the office, some she assumes belong to people that work with Cynthia. Crane’s beat up truck parks next to a newer model BMW and Crane whistles at the vehicle.

“It seems that some of Cynthia’s lawyer friends are here,” he says, echoing her thoughts.

“Then you should fit right on in with these fancy people.”

“I beg your pardon,” he grumbles, cutting the ignition and glancing over at her.

“I beg your pardon,” Abbie mimics, trying out his accent. She does horribly, she presumes, by the look that Crane gives her. Abbie bursts into laughter as they get out of the truck.

“First,” he starts, “That attempt at sounding like me was absolutely horrendous.” She grins. “Second, what do you mean I’ll fit right in?”

“Please, Crane. You work at Sleepy Hollow U, the literal most pretentious place in this town.”

Crane opens his mouth in faux shock, but Abbie can see the mirth playing in his deep blue eyes.

They start moving towards the gate that leads to the back, where they can hear the sounds of 80s hits playing, see the cloud of smoke from the grill. Abbie clutches at the bag on her right shoulder and then glances up at Crane who is on her left.

“See, you haven’t even said anything because you know I’m right.”

Crane gives her the hint of a smile and shakes his head. “I will admit that there are a few people there who think rather highly of our field.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” she interrupts. “Every last one of your coworkers looked at me like I had some nerve for being at that school.”

“You are so dramatic.”

Abbie’s eyebrows raise in offense. “ _I’m_ dramatic?”

“In this instance, yes you are.”

“Hmm,” Abbie hums as they reach the gate. She pauses for a moment, her free hand on her hip. “So I'm imagining the looks?”

Crane tilts his head. “You are going to have to be more specific.”

“Your two groupies looking at me like I’m something stuck on the bottom of their probably very expensive shoes? That weird smirk Brooks kept giving me?”’

That makes Crane stand up straighter, move closer to her. “Stay away from him.”

Abbie’s brows furrow at the abrupt change in demeanor. “What? Why?”

His shrug is not as nonchalant as he probably thinks it is. “I do not like the way he looks at you; it does not have anything to do with pretentiousness.”

“No?”

“No,” he shakes his head and moves even closer. There is but a breath of distance between them, and Abbie finds her back pressed against the green painted gate. “He looks at you like I do and I do not like it.”

Abbie startles at how easily he says those words. And before she can think too much about it, she asks, “so like the way those floozies look at you?”

“Floozies?” He lifts a brow.

“Not the point.”

Abbie doesn’t imagine the way his eyes travel quickly over her face, even as the corners of his pretty mouth lift up.

“You’re jealous,” he says and Abbie can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement.

“Of course not. I…”

“You shouldn’t be,” he tells her, and then his hand is at her waist. “There is no need. You are the single most beautiful woman I have ever met, smarter than anyone I know, and your job is infinitely more important than anyone in academia.”

Abbie’s lips part at that, as she sucks in breath, as she gazes up at him in trepidation, in nervousness, in something that makes her dizzy. 

“I-” she mumbles. “You can’t-”

Crane gazes briefly up at the sky before squeezing her waist. “Just accept the compliment, Abigail.”

Abbie frowns. “You’re a lot more demanding than I had originally given you credit for.”

His answering grin is on the other side of dirty. “Tell me you do not like it.”

His voice dips, lower, into the bottom of her stomach. His hand is still on her waist and he’s staring down at her. Her breasts are against the hard planes of his chest, and she touches a hand to his jaw, scratching absently at his beard. Everything in her wants to kiss him.

Just as she leans up to do so, she hears her name in a woman’s voice from over Crane’s shoulder. She breathes heavily as she gently pushes him back and she watches Crane blink and lick his lips before she steps out from in front of him.

She is surprised to see Sophie Foster standing there, her light brown skin glowing in a yellow bikini top, her bottoms covered by a pair of dark denim shorts. Her long hair is piled on top of her head in some semblance of a bun and she’s got a towel slung over her shoulder. She’s also wearing a smirk, one that deepens as she looks from Abbie to Crane and back again.

“Hey there, Mills,” she greets.

“Hey, Foster.”

“I’m surprised to see you here. You don’t usually like these get-togethers.”

Abbie nods and glances up at Crane who’s moved away to give the women space to talk. “Yeah, I was coerced.”

Crane snorts and Abbie props her hand back on her hip.

“You saying I wasn’t?”

Crane shakes his head, amusement clear on his face. “I haven’t said a word.”

“Hmm,” Sophie hums from where she’s standing. “And he’s got an accent too. No wonder Mills has been rushing out of the office lately.”

Crane looks at her as if to say, “ _Oh?_ ” 

Abbie blatantly ignores him. “Something like that,” she says to Sophie. “Crane, this is Sophie Foster. Foster, this is my… this is Ichabod Crane.”

“A pleasure, Crane,” Sophie waves a hand.

“Oh, I assure you, it is my pleasure to meet one of Abigail’s colleagues.”

Sophie’s smile is wide and teasing as she looks back at Abbie. **“** Yes, I can definitely see why she’s been hiding you.”

“Tell me about it,” Abbie breathes out and then Sophie does laugh. It’s strange, seeing her like this, because, almost as much as Abbie does, Sophie tends to keep to herself at work.

“In any case, it’s good to see you out, Mills.”

This time, Abbie’s smile is wholly genuine. “Thanks, Foster.”

They both step out of the way so that Sophie can enter the gate and then Abbie and Crane follow her.

The scene they walk into is so utterly different from what she had imagined that she has to stop for a moment to make sure that they’re in the right place. The Irvings’ backyard is large, with an in ground pool she knows they got a few years ago, a hot tub off to the side of the pool. Their back porch might as well serve as a second kitchen and living room. There is a fireplace on the right side, which serves as a focal point. Plump couches in easy to clean fabrics sit around the fireplace, the TV above it playing the music video to the song coming from the speakers. On the other side is a large dining table and an electric grill that spans the length of the side of the house. Irving is there now, a beer in his hand while he cooks. He’s dressed like Crane, in swim trunks and a t-shirt, a pair of shades on to keep the sun out of his eyes. They spot Cynthia at the bar right off the side of the porch, mixing drinks for a pretty black couple that Abbie doesn’t recognize.

There are people everywhere. A couple of men play water basketball, trying to shoot a small orange ball in the hoop on one side of the pool. A group of women are at the other end, in revealing bathing suits and pink drinks in their hands, talking animatedly. On the other side of the yard, there is a card table set up and from the sheer volume coming from the table, Abbie figures it’s probably a Spades game going on.

“Holy shit,” Abbie mumbles. This is definitely a step up from those game nights she had attended years ago.

“See what you’ve been missing, Mills?” Sophie says with a laugh before she trots off in the direction of Johnson, another agent.

“Shall we go greet Frank and Cynthia?” Crane asks.

Abbie nods and is so busy looking around that she doesn’t even realize that Crane’s grabbed her hand and started leading her to their hosts.

No one has yet seemed to pick up on the aberration that is her arrival and Abbie absently bites her lip at the sight of her hand in his as she walks beside him. Cynthia sees them first and Abbie can literally see the wheels turning in her head as she sees them, noting their clasped hands. Her smile is brilliant and she might even do a dance from behind the bar. She turns to say something to her husband and Abbie knows that pulling her hand away from Crane now would go a little further than hurting Crane’s feelings.

They close the distance just as Frank turns around to glance at them. His shades hide his expression and it makes her apprehensive, that she doesn’t immediately know what he’s thinking.

Surprisingly, they don’t mention it, at least not at first. Frank waves and then goes back to cooking and Cynthia rounds the corner of the bar to give them both hugs. She’s in a plain black one-piece bathing suit, a red polkadot wrap tied low on her hips, but her body is amazing and she’s wearing the hell out of it.

“You always look so goddamn good,” Abbie praises as she does drop Crane’s hand now to wrap her arms around the older woman. 

“Oh, you're one to talk.”

Like always, Cynthia gives her a nice long squeeze. She feels the woman wave at Crane over her shoulder and then Crane gives a slight bow with a, “Miss Cynthia” before he walks up the stairs to talk to Frank. 

When Cynthia pulls away, she is beaming. “I knew this was happening. Tell me everything,” she says and starts back toward the bar. “And what do you want to drink?”

“Doesn’t matter. Something strong,” Abbie replies. “And there’s nothing to tell.”

Cynthia glances up from scooping ice into a plastic cup. “Coke or ginger ale?” she asks.

“Ginger ale,” Abbie tells her.

She picks up a bottle of gin and pours a generous amount over the ice. “So you walk in here together, _holding hands,_ and there’s nothing going on?”

Abbie watches her pour in cranberry juice and ginger ale before topping it with a few cherries and handing it over.

“I didn’t say there was nothing going on,” Abbie mumbles from behind her cup. She takes a sip to block out the disbelieving glare her friend throws her way. 

“Right,” she says and then starts mixing another drink. Abbie waits silently, because there is no way the opinionated woman doesn’t have more to say (she and her husband are alike that way). She chances a glance at Irving and Crane who don’t seem to be saying much to each other but still somehow look deep in conversation.

“Let’s go for a dip,” Cynthis suggests and Abbie doesn’t think this is something she can decline. She nods and Cynthia points to where she can place her bag and her dress. She pulls the short black dress over her shoulder, revealing the white swimsuit. It’s a one-piece too, except it’s backless, the material dipping all the way to the lower curve of her back. The straps are thin and the cutouts along her hips make her grateful that she manages to find time to wax.

“I swear,” Cynthia says as they walk over to the pool, drinks in their hands. “It’s a wonder Crane lasted so long with you walking around looking like that.”

“What?” Abbie says, even though she clearly heard her. The comment makes her look back over her shoulder at Crane and this time he’s looking at her too, his expression so blatantly lustful that Abbie grows warm all over. She abruptly turns around.

“That’s what,” Cynthia comments. 

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbie deflects. 

It’s not her best method, but it’s all she’s got at the moment. She doesn’t know, not _really,_ her feelings for Crane, what their new dance implies. She knows that they’ve become _something,_ way more than was her original want for them. She still sees those flashing lights that tell her to _get out while you can_ , _he’s way too good for you, this will only end badly,_ but it’s been hard to remember that when his friendship has been the only thing keeping her steady, when his hands have done a better job of holding her together than she has of herself, when returning to her bed feels more like a chore than it used to, much more so than just staying wrapped up in him. But none of those are concrete in her mind so how is she supposed to explain it to anyone else?

They’ve gotten to the pool, across from where the other ladies are still drinking and talking. They must be Cynthia’s friends because Abbie doesn’t recognize them but they wave cheerily at her, probably already drunk on rum and sun. Cynthia drops her wrap onto the side of the pool and then bends down to place her drink there.

Abbie does the same with her drink and just as she’s lowering herself into the pool, she hears a whistle from the other side of the pool.

“Damn, Mills! Surprised to see you here and looking like that!”

It’s Jenkins, overly friendly and too often leery, grinning down at her. Johnson, who’s standing up in the water with his arm around Foster’s shoulders, hits him upside his head, telling him to “stop being a perv.”

“Sorry, Mills!” he yells back, decidedly not sorry, and Abbie shakes her head, returning her attention to Cynthia.

“And I thought I worked with idiots.”

“You work with a lot of men?” Abbie questions her. Cynthia nods.

“Then you do.”

They share a laugh and settle on the steps.

They’re quiet for a long moment and Abbie revels in it, knowing the real inquisition will come soon. She watches the people she sees everyday mingling with people she doesn’t know. There is an ease in their interactions, in the way they talk and joke and laugh, like this is a regular occurance. And maybe it is. Abbie knows that Irving and Cynthia like to entertain. She’s heard talk of some of their more notorious gatherings. And Abbie has even been to a few, in her early days in the bureau. She remembers the long nights spent drinking beer in their living room, playing games and kicking ass, solidifying her decision to stay in Sleepy Hollow. 

She’d first met Crane at one of these game nights, about a year before he’d moved in with her. Jenny had just passed and, in between wallowing in grief and losing her goddamn mind, Frank had ordered her to come. She’d only taken enough time off to bury her sister, only enough time to set up payment plans for the rest of the hospital bills, and purge her house of every single reminder, and Frank had told her if she didn’t attend, he’d keep her out of the field until he felt she was ready. It hadn’t been much of an option after that. She knew that she could play okay, play the part of “ _yes, my sister, the only family i have left is dead, but i promise i’m not slowly dying too,”_ because the alternative--sitting at home and just, _thinking_ about Jenny--was never going to happen.

Nevertheless, she'd spent much of the game night hiding out in their kitchen while grown professionals had way too much fun playing Taboo. When Crane had walked into the kitchen, after she’d been in there some thirty-odd minutes, nibbling on fruit from the overflow tray, she’d nearly choked on a strawberry. He’d seemed like the antithesis to everything she’d known up until then. He’d swept in, in all the glory that is so purely _Crane:_ the scent of sandalwood trailing lightly after him, a blue blazer over his button-down and jeans, his hair shorter and waving at his ears, his blue eyes assessing and way too observant.

“Oh, pardon,” he’d spoken, long fingers rubbing along his overgrown beard. The accent had caught her off guard, just as much as the height and the actual timbre of his voice. And the way he’d kept looking at her. 

“No worries,” she’d said. “Just getting away from the crowd for a bit.”

He hadn’t asked any questions then, only introduced himself as “Ichabod Crane,” and then made the ghost of a smile appear on her face when he’d bowed and told her it was a pleasure to meet the “Agent Abigail Mills,” who Irving had raved so much about.

They’d spent much of the night talking, mostly about what he’d been getting up to in America, and at the end of the night, Abbie had felt so confusingly flustered about the whole thing that she had vowed to never speak to him again. 

Obviously, she had, at the next couple game nights the Irvings had hosted, before she’d officially decided to stop attending. Their meetings became few and far between and she’d managed to put any thought of him away. Until he’d moved in with her. 

It seems like the longest two years she’s ever experienced, definitely the hardest, but as much as she lies to those around her, she can’t say that Crane hasn’t saved her.

“You know,” Cynthia starts, and the somber tone of her voice brings Abbie back to the present. She drinks from her cup before catching her eyes. “Ichabod has been half in love with you from the moment he met you.”

Abbie doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes flutter back to Crane again and she catches him smiling at something Irving and another man Abbie doesn’t know are saying. It’s unfair, she thinks, the type of man Crane is: open and honest and so fucking good-looking it makes her annoyed. 

“He shouldn’t be,” Abbie says, keeping her eyes across the yard. “He’s way too good for me.”

“Abbie, what?”

The shock in Cynthia’s voice makes Abbie turn back to her. Her big brown eyes are round as she looks at Abbie, and then her expression changes. It’s one Abbie recognizes, one she’d gotten for weeks after her dad and then her mom, and especially after Corbin; the one she’d gotten for literal _months_ after Jenny.

“Don’t, Cynthia.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say whatever it is you’re gonna say.”

“Don’t tell you that you’re goddamn amazing and you and Crane are _perfect_ for each other?”

Abbie glares at her. “Cynthia…”

“Look, Abbie. I know we’re not all that close, that you’re my husband’s friend and I just get you by proxy. That’s pretty true for Crane too. But like you and my husband, as a lawyer, it is my job to be astute. I know that you’ve been through some shit that has, for some reason, made you feel as if you can’t love or shouldn’t be loved.”

“Cynthia…”

The other woman rolls her eyes and it makes Abbie pause. “Abbie, let me care about you, for just a minute.”

And what should Abbie tell her? No?

Cynthia continues on, softly but unyielding. “Look, Abbie. Frank and I care about you. And that man you keep looking at, he does too. And I get it, you’ve had it _hard._ No one should have to go through as much as you’ve gone through. You are so strong because of it. But Abbie, Crane has also been put through the ringer. If you guys are trying to figure it out, that’s good. But if you’re hoping he’s just going to leave you, that’s not going to happen, not unless you push him out of the door. And if you’re going to do that, you need to let it go now, before you both end up hurt.”

************

When Cynthia leaves Abbie to ruminate on what can be so eloquently summed up as “Abbie, get your shit together,” she gets out of the pool and goes to the restroom. She walks through their impressively decorated home--Cynthia could be an interior designer in another life--and makes her way to their downstairs bathroom, a beautiful room done in shades of gray and yellow. 

She quickly takes care of her business and, as she’s watching her hands, she stares at herself in the waist length mirror. The humidity has her curled her hair so that it’s not much more than a kinky ball atop her head. Her eyes are wider, vaguely unfocused, in the way they are when she’s had a drink. Her bathing suit looks like snow on her brown skin and the contrast makes her stand out. She might even be glowing, she thinks, sun-kissed and radiant.

Cynthia’s words, though, run as a continuous stream through her mind. The woman is right, she knows. Abbie has always known the ending of this, so much so that thinking about it has become redundant. She knows that at some point, she has to figure it out. She has to decide.

(And when she does, she doesn’t actually think it is of her own accord and really, she had known it all along.)

But today, today she doesn’t have to. Because it’s _summertime,_ and today, the _living is easy_. For just today, she’ll let it be easy. 

The party gets a little rowdy after that, and Abbie is grateful for the reprieve. Alcohol flows freely, Cynthia giving up her post and allowing people free reign over their own poisons. Burgers and hotdogs, corn on the cob and vegetable skewers make up dinner, a platter of grilled peaches for dessert. Food is plentiful and people eat as they think about it, in between card games and water basketball. Abbie splits her time between whooping ass in Spades and drinking with Cynthia, a few women from Cynthia’s law firm, and Foster, the latter of whom Abbie decides it’s been nice actually getting to know.

In all of it, Crane is peripheral, allowing her time to mingle with these people she’s known for so long without actually making an effort to know; and making sure she’s fed and hydrated and sufficiently tipsy. There is a moment where it is just she and Foster. Cynthia has gone off to make love eyes at her husband, 

(who Abbie is staying away from because if she thought Cynthia’s speech was spot on, Irving’s would send her running)

the other ladies want food, and they’re sitting together on two of the chaise lounge chairs, when Crane makes his way to them. He’s got two drinks in his hand and a contented smile on his face as he stops in front of them. She’s not drunk, but in a pleasant place, where her inhibitions are just a little lower and her smiles come a little bit quicker and she no longer feels the crippling, stifling fear she often feels in Crane’s presence.

“Hello, ladies,” he greets. “I’ve been told by Cynthia that you two would need refills soon.”

Abbie and Sophie look briefly at one another before they burst into laughter.

“She’s definitely trying to get us fucked up,” Sophie mumbles as she takes the drink that Crane offers. 

“It’s absolutely working,” Abbie agrees. She reaches out for her drink, making grabby hands, and he chuckles as he sits on the chaise by her legs. He rests a heavy hand on top of her thigh, keeping her drink from her, holding it on the other side of his body.

“Crane,” she whines, “what are you doing? Give me my drink.”

“I will,” he says. “I just want to check on you first.”

His voice sounds deeper in the humid night, a faint tan on his otherwise pale skin from summer days spent in the sun. He’s secured his hair back and all of his face is there for her to see: his pink lips surrounded by the soft hair of his mustache, his beard; his ruddy cheeks, his pretty blue eyes much clearer than she knows hers are. 

“Are you well?” he asks, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Other than being blitzed.”

“I’m not blitzed,” Abbie argues. “I do feel good, though.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods. “I’m good. Promise. Only water after this one.”

“Alright.”

He still doesn’t hand her the drink, though. Instead, he puts it safely on the ground beside him and moves up closer to her. Their hips are side by side, as much as they can be, and he places his palm on the back of the chair beside her head. She follows the line of his arm until she’s looking into his face again. She’s still in just her bathing suit, the sun and alcohol making her too hot to want to put even the short black dress back on, and the way his eyes rove over her makes her feel heated from the inside out. 

“What?” Abbie asks, and her voice is quieter than she had intended. It seems to fit though, because there’s a rushing in her ears that blocks out everything around them.

“This swimsuit,” he mumbles, voice just as low, fingers skimming the outside of her thigh. 

“What about it?” 

“It’s barely here.”

Abbie affects a frown. “You don’t like it?”

The same half smile he’s been gracing her with grows deeper, and his nimble fingers travel higher on her thigh, up, up to trace the hem of the suit, over the curve of her hip.

“I did not say that.” He licks his lips slowly. “Although, I do not like the way it makes these men look at you.”

Abbie tilts her head “I work with these people, Crane.”

“Yes,” he says. “Does not mean they haven’t been staring at you all evening.”

It’s Abbie’s turn to give him a half grin. “You’re jealous,” she says and it’s a statement.

“Always.” His response is automatic, so quick that she knows it’s real.

Even to herself, she sounds resigned when she says, “You’re making it very hard to resist you.”

He brings his right hand up to trail up her belly, past her breastbone, to lightly circle her throat. “Then stop trying to resist me, Treasure.”

Her lips part at his words, at the darkening cobalt of his eyes, at his fingers on her skin. She doesn’t speak; she can’t. But she thinks her silence says what her mouth would most likely screw up because he leans down and gives her a sweet kiss.

He pulls back to say, “I’m going to get more food. Do you want anything?”

“My drink.”

Over the pounding of her heart, she hopes it comes out as playful as she thinks.

“Of course.”

He gives her another quick kiss before he hands her her drink and strolls away, his walk slow and confident. She brings the cup to her lips and chugs half of it.

“Y’all are really cute together,” she hears from beside her, and she blinks as the rush of noise surrounds her again. She shakes her head to clear it and then turns to where Sophie is grinning over at her. “How long have y’all been together?”

It shouldn’t but the question catches her off guard. For several beats, she thinks of how she wants to answer it before just telling the truth.

“We,” she sighs, “aren’t.”

Sophie’s frowning face would be comedic if Abbie’s mind wasn’t reeling. 

“Does he know that?”

Abbie just shakes her head because, as she’s realizing, she doesn’t think she knows it, either.

************

The party winds down near ten, when the sun has finally settled and given way to the moon, the sky a blanket of clear, inky blue velvet. As she’d said, she’d stopped drinking after that last one and she’s no longer drunk. She is tired, though, the kind that comes from too much sun and too much food, and she drags herself behind Crane as they head to the car.

On their way out, Irving and Cynthia stop them to say goodbye and as she wraps her arms around her boss’s waist, he tells her, “Whatever you think is going to go wrong, it won’t,” and when she leans back to ask him what he means, he merely nods at Crane. She gives him one sharp nod, because she’s still thinking, trying to figure it all out, and then lets Crane leads her by the hand to his truck.

The ride back is silent, save for Ella singing again, _it's not the pale moon that excites me, that thrills and delights me, oh no, it's just the nearness of you._ She thinks of what those words mean right now, of the truth that lives in them. Maybe she doesn’t know anything else at the moment, what these strange and too intense feelings mean; but in the still of the night, she believes in the reality of these words. So with the dulcet tones of Ella in her ear and the feel of Crane’s hand heavy and solid on her thigh, she lets herself be lulled to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I think I know where this is going, I sit down to write and am taken somewhere else. This is wasn't I meant for this chapter, but I think I wanted to see them smiling just a little more. We only have two more chapters before we're done.  
> If you're still with me, thank you for rocking with me and I hope this wasn't disappointing after such a long wait. I'm already half way done with the next installment, so the penultimate chapter of this fic should be posted in the next couple weeks.  
> If there was anything you liked about this chapter, please leave a comment about it. I could use some nice words.  
> I hope that y'all are being safe during this pandemic and staying healthy as well (physically and especially mentally). Until next time,
> 
> Elle <3


	6. III.ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie starts to figure out some things.

The next week is something of a vacation from work. She still goes in and consults on cases for a few of the other departments, but their department has a temporary lull in cases that makes them all breathe a little easier for the first time in a while. The lack of cases creates a sort of lackadaisical atmosphere: a bit more laughing, a little less angst.

Abbie sees how much she’s changed in this atmosphere. She doesn’t feel as on edge. This momentary reprieve from death, from watching murderers and rapists wreak havoc, is startling to Abbie in how much she likes it. It is...well, it is nice to be able to not take pictures home--physical or otherwise--of mutilated bodies and women with blood running down their thighs, of missing pieces and parents who won’t ever see their children again. For so long, Abbie has lived her life as Agent Mills. She goes to work, she works her ass off, and then she falls asleep, trying to _not_ think about dead children or her dead family or dead women dumped behind dumpsters. She enjoys the respite way too much, far more than she ever thought she would. There’s been shorter days and less stress and a reduction in the whirling, rocking despondency that comes with navigating her day to day job.

Since she’s been sleeping with Crane--and, if she’s being truly honest, _dating_ him--she’s found that she appreciates thinking about other things, she likes being able to let loose in a way that she never has. She has the nights when they’re curled on the couch, watching their home improvement shows, and it’s probably one of her favorite moments, full of another of Crane’s home cooked meals, a small glass of wine on the table beside her, the unfamiliar sensation of _contentment_ surrounding her. She likes their dates too, the few they’ve gone on, being desired, cherished. Crane is so spectacular about making sure that she’s _seen_ , that she’s taken care of when they’re out together, that Abbie is unsure of how she’ll come back from it. She's starting to believe she doesn’t want to.

It is the following Friday and she is sitting at her desk, completing some paperwork when a shadow covers her desk. She looks up slowly to see Cynthia and Foster standing there, identical mischievous grins on their faces. Abbie looks at Cynthia first and then Sophie, before deciding to tackle Cynthia. 

“I know you’re up to something,” Abbie says,” because you’re never here.”

“But I just came by to see my hubby,” she supplies.

Abbie looks back at Sophie who’s smiling far too excitedly.

“What’s going on Foster?”

Sophie opens her mouth to speak, but then Cynthia squeals “Girls night!” and they both start laughing.

“Come out with us,” Sophie recovers first. “Leave that man of yours at home.” This Sophie punctuates with a sly smile, “and come dancing with us.”

“Right,” Cynthia adds. “Put on a sexy dress, do something with all the pretty hair, let off some of the steam cultivated in this depressing ass job y’all have.”

“It’s amazing,” Abbie mumbles. “That you’re actually a lawyer.”

“And a damn good one.”

“So you’ll come?” Sophie questions.

Abbie gazes back at the both of them, at those grins and the hopeful gleam in their eyes. She’s never before had a girl’s night, at least not like this. Movie and popcorn nights with Jenny had been all she could handle once she was on the police force. But Jenny had had her own college friends and Abbie had wanted to make sure she’d gotten the experience Abbie hadn’t been able to. She doesn’t regret it at all; she’d do anything to be struggling in college again, if only to have Jenny beside her again. Her sister is gone, though, and Abbie knows as well as she’d known her, that Jenny would have been livid if Abbie didn’t agree to this. Even in the final weeks of Jenny’s life, she’d tried to push Abbie into _living_ , into keeping her away from the hospital and out of her own head. Jenny would love this for her. It is why she says yes.

************

That’s how she ends up sitting at her vanity, applying dark eye makeup. Jill Scott is playing from her speakers-- _is it the way, you love me baby? is it the way, you love me baby? (yeah)_ \--and a glass of Crane’s whiskey is sitting on the vanity next to a set of her brushes. The excitement from earlier seems to have risen and Abbie feels it down to her toes as she sings along to Jill’s beautiful voice. 

She hums as she finishes her makeup, a bit of gold on the lids that lead into something darker, the dark brown liner and mascara making her chocolate eyes pop in her golden brown skin. She’d straightened her hair several days ago and now the tresses wave down past her shoulders, full and bouncy. The dress she is to wear is laying out on her bed. It’s one of Jenny’s, a gold slip of a dress, the material light and nearly iridescent. She picks it up by the thin shoulder straps, presses it against her body as she stares at herself in the mirror. 

When Abbie had had to pack up all of Jenny’s belongings, she’d kept out some things, dresses and books and a pretty glass bong that Abbie keeps hidden in her closet. This dress had been one of those items and, like much of Jenny’s things, had been a true representation of her, glowing and bright. Abbie carefully slips the dress over her head, over her bare breasts and down her hips past the tiny pair of black silk panties she’s wearing. Jenny had been taller than her, though Abbie’s a little curvier, especially since she’s been regularly eating home cooked meals. That means the dress is a bit longer on her than it was on Abbie, looser at the top but clinging to her hips and ass. She likes the way it looks on her, likes how it screams _sexy_ when she adds the strappy gold heels.

She grabs a hold of her glass again and takes a sip, and another one, wiping absently at the corner of her mouth, careful not to mess up the nude lipstick she’s wearing. She lets Jill sing to her some more and she joins in, _let's take a long walk around the park after dark, find a spot for us to spark_ , singing and rocking her hips a little to the sensual beat. She’s still got a little while before she ubers downtown to meet Cynthia and Sophie, and so she lets this feeling ride, the music and the whiskey and the fact that she feels better (calmer, _happier_ ) than she has in literal years. 

She admits that she’s frightened by it, this sensation that things are alright. She knows that it just means that shit will inevitably hit the fan soon; nothing good ever lasts too long for her. But she’s got women who are waiting on her, _her,_ to enjoy a night out, and the affection of a man who is beautiful and gracious and way too good for her. It’ll all blow up in her face--she knows, she knows, she knows it will--but not tonight. She really wants tonight.

“You look beautiful.”

The sound of Crane’s voice behind her startles her and she jumps on the heels of her shoes. Luckily, none of her drink spills as she whirls around to face him. He’s standing in her door, hands stuffed in the pockets of the navy chino pants he’s wearing, his stark white button down stretching over his chest. He is leaning against the door and he looks so pretty standing there, the scruff on his face, the pink of his lips, the smile sitting in his blue eyes.

“Hi,” she says, gracing him with a smile of her own. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He points vaguely at the air, gesturing to the music playing from speakers he can’t see. “I like it. Who is this?”

“Jill Scott,” she answers. “Getting into the mood.”

“Mood?”

She nods and starts dancing again, moving over to him. “Girls night. With Cynthia and Sophie.”

“Ah.” His gaze locks on hers as she swings, watching her hips, taking note of the hem just above her knees. “Is that why you look like this?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Like?”

“Like you’re out to break the hearts of a few unsuspecting men.”

For some reason, that makes her grin, and she sidles up to Crane, just a breath away. 

“Dance with me?” she requests instead, holding out her hand. She isn’t quite feeling the effects of the whiskey, not yet, but she likes the song that’s playing, the smooth, sexy beat making her rock her hips without thought. The light tapping of the drums makes her smile and she sits her glass down on top of her dresser before holding her hand out to him. He hesitates only for a moment, then pushes off the door, pulling at her at the same time as he walks closer to her. He smells like he always does, like sandalwood and heat, and she closes her eyes for a second when he wraps a long arm around her waist.

Jill starts singing, _your hands on my hips pull me right back to you; I catch that thrust, give it right back to you; you're in so deep, I'm breathing for you; you grab my braids, arch my back high for you_ , and she lets out a deep sigh. She’d forgotten how overt this song is, and the words ring clearer than they ever have. It’s a live version, so the tempo is a little slower, asking for more sway to her hips than the usual rocking the album version asks for. She presses her cheek to his shoulder, delighting in his hands on her back. He moves with her, following easily in a dance that reminds her so much of when they’re in bed together, their hips undulating to the music, but to the sound of their own beat as well.

 _Crown Royal on ice_ , Jill croons, and Abbie likes that. She makes him feel like that, like Crown Royal on ice, smooth and easy and like all she needs is a few sips of him to feel good. In the days, weeks, actual _months,_ since they’ve been doing this, she’s so firmly tried to keep him at arms’ length. Crane has always been an anomaly, able to get things out of her with just a caress of his hand, just a little bit of observation, that sometimes Jenny’d had to beg for. It had been more about wanting to protect Jenny than herself, she knows, wanting to let Jenny have some semblance of a happy life. With Crane it’s different. No matter how much she wishes to keep them emotionally platonic, he keeps weaving his way in, making her smile, making her laugh, making her think that, sometimes, it’s okay to let loose, it’s okay to feel again. At least for a little while.

He squeezes a hand at her hip and then lets the other slide over to her back, and down, until he’s holding a handful of her ass. She moans in the back of her throat and she feels his lips curve against her temple.

“Don’t start,” she tells him.

“I,” he begins, moving back slightly to look at her face fully, “don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right.” Her own hand snakes behind her and she places it on top of his own. “I spent too much time getting ready for you to mess all this up before I leave.”

Crane hums, squeezing once, pressing her firmly into him, where she feels him hard on her belly. “Are you sure?”

His voice is deep in her ear and it makes her shiver. His free hand slides to her thigh where he fingers the hem of her dress before pushing it up to her waist.

“Are you sure,” he wonders again, “that I can not convince you to stay?”

He tangles his fingers in the top of her underwear, playing a little, and her stomach clenches. She’s discovering that he could, convince her, she means. He could probably convince her to stay, to go, to do whatever he wants. It’s the sound of his voice, the way he smiles at her. It’s the reverence with which he treats her, the patience he exhibits too. 

The fact that this no doubt ends badly no longer seems to be enough to keep her away from him. This feeling is one she’ll get to hold on, she’ll get to say she experienced. Her dad had been fun and boisterous, always with a laugh. Abbie is happy she gets to remember him that way. Her mother had been kind and soft-spoken, the epitome of motherly love. She is thankful she gets to remember her that way. Corbin had been firm but open, teaching her that it was okay, letting others in. She’ll never forget the gift that was Corbin. Jenny had been beautiful and smart, the type to _live,_ despite consequences. And for all the pain of losing her (Jenny’s death, she admits, had hurt the most), she would never trade having been able to watch her whirlwind of a sister: vibrant and shocking and amazing.

“I doubt I’ll stay out too late,” she tells him, voice just on the other side of breathless. “Wait up for me?”

Crane bends down to study her face, eyes flicking with question over her. He nods once and again, squeezing her ass once more and then letting her go. Before she can step back fully, though, he wraps his arm around her waist and brings her back to him, lifting her chin to him with the forefinger of his other hand.

“You’ll be safe tonight, yes?”

Abbie rolls her eyes, but there’s no bite to it. “Yes, daddy.”

Crane grunts, pressing against her, but otherwise makes no other response to the term.

“You’ll call me? If either of you need anything?”

Abbie tilts her head at him. She knows that he knows she can (all of them can) absolutely take care of themselves. But it’s endearing, being cared about in this way.

“We’ll be fine, Crane. We’re just dancing, having a few drinks. We’ll be okay.”

He hums. “If all of you will be dressed like this, it is not you I think I should be worried about.”

It makes Abbie laugh, the little crease in his forehead, the way he sort of grumbles it.

She goes to step away from him, but he brings her back one last time. She gazes up at him in question.

“And you’ll let yourself have fun? Yes?”

Her answering smile is soft as she tells him, “yes.”

************

Cynthia and Sophie are outside of the club waiting for her when her Uber makes a stop along the side of the building. They’re both laughing at something, and something tightens in Abbie’s chest at the knowledge that these two women, insanely intelligent, gorgeous, _compassionate_ , are waiting for her, wanting this type of night with her.

She thanks the man in the driver’s seat, and steps out of the car, a matching clutch settled under her arm. Her friends notice her almost immediately, and they hurry over to meet her. There is the customary “oh my god, you look beautiful” from each of them, but it’s true. Cynthia’s signature color seems to be red. Her dress is white, a fairly simple thing with thin straps and a sweetheart neckline, but it fits her gorgeous figure and she looks beautiful in it. Her red stiletto heels have a cute bow at the ankle and match her lipstick. Sophie is in black; the dress is made of some sort of silk blend, has thin straps and a low-V neckline, with an asymmetrical hemline. Her shoes are just as tall and skinny, and there’s something about a few women of color looking good and feeling themselves that makes Abbie smile.

They have to stand in line for a few minutes, surrounded by people as equally as well dressed as they are, and a lot more drunk, before they can get in. They talk about their days, or rather, they listen to Cynthia talk about hers, and Abbie basks in what seems like a simple rite of passage: girls night. Work keeps them all busy and they rarely have time for play; when they do, clubs are not always on the list.

This club is targeted to the people their age, in their late 20s, early 30s (though the Irvings are a bit older than that). She can hear the music from the outside, a song by Boogie Down Productions, and when they walk in, she can tell why the club’s social media sites call it the place for the “grown and sexy” crowd. It is not as sleek as Ellington’s, but there is definite proof that it appeals to an older group. A dance floor takes up a significant amount of space on the first floor, circled by round high top tables. Bars sit on the outskirts of both sides. The upstairs is completely open to view, and more of a lounge area, with couches and tables for a calmer effect.

“So how are we doing this?” Sophie wonders. “Are we taking shots, jumping straight into the action? Or are we sipping, finding a table and vibing?”

Abbie understands what all those words mean separately, but she’s a bit unsure on what they mean in context. Cynthia seems to know and she shakes her head, thinking.

“Both,” she decides. “Let’s hang out upstairs for a bit, case the crowd, if you will, and then we dance.”

It sounds reasonable to the other two women, so that’s what they do. Sophie agrees to get the first round, and Cynthia hooks her arms with Abbie’s and leads her upstairs. It’s relatively quieter there with far less people. She clocks a couple sitting in a corner, looking cozy enough that Abbie decides not to look too closely at what they may or may not be doing. Another group of people sit away from the railing, men and women all laughing and talking all over one another. The rest of the area is clear, and that gives them their pick of tables or booths. Cynthia decides that they should settle at one of the tables with the high back chairs towards the railing, explaining “it gives us a great view of the dance floor. Perfect for both deciding when to go out and to do some people watching.” Cynthia grins, Abbie mirroring the action.

They can hear each other enough that they can have a bit of a conversation. Jay-Z is playing-- _you know I thug 'em, fuck 'em, love 'em, leave 'em, 'cause I don't fuckin' need 'em_ \-- and up here, the music sounds like it’s filtered. The thumping bass is little more than a bump in her chest, and Abbie figures there are no speakers up here and it makes for a slightly more relaxed atmosphere. Abbie knows that that isn’t the point of places like this, that they’re here to dance and have a good time. She likes having the option to ease into it, though, to study the vibe before she dives into it.

“So,” Cynthia starts, almost as soon as they sit down. “How is Ichabod?”

Abbie doesn’t catch it in time to stop it, the smile that curves her lips at the thought of him. Cynthia, though, spots it immediately, and scoots in closer to her, propping her chin up on her fists, perceivably awaiting something juicy.

“Cynthia…”

“ _Come on,_ Abbie _,”_ Cynthia whines. “You have to give me something I’ve been rooting for you two since you met.”

She’s said something to this effect before, but Abbie hadn’t wanted to give it too much thought. At first, Abbie had thought that it’d had more to do with a straight man and a straight woman living in close proximity. Then Cynthia had thrown the word _love_ in, and it had been much more than Abbie had wanted to address.

“Plus,” Cynthia adds, before Abbie can think any deeper. “I want to know how the sex is.”

Abbie just stares.

“Oh, come on,” Cynthia says. “Ichabod is way too polite to tell other people he wanted to bend you over a table but I’ve no doubt that he did the first time he got a chance.”

“Cynthia!” Abbie nearly shouts, eyes going wide. The other woman laughs, head thrown back as she cackles.

“What?” Cynthia shakes her head. “You cannot tell me he hasn’t done it.”

“I…” she murmurs, though she is unsure what she means to say, because he—thoroughly and often. She thinks she’s saved when Sophie walks in, carrying three shot glasses in one hand, and the necks of three beers in the other. She places the shots down in front of all of them and the beers too.

“What’d I miss?” she wonders, taking a seat in one of the empty chairs.

“Oh, nothing,” Abbie tries, but then Cynthia places a hand on the table to get her attention.

“Not nothing. We’re talking about Ichabod and Abbie’s sex life.”

“We are definitely not,” Abbie says, but she might as well be talking to herself.

“Oooh, let’s hear it,” Sophie says. “I know that he’s all white and lanky, but there’s something about that uptight Britishness that makes me think he’s putting it down.”

“Right!” Cynthia agrees. “So is he?” 

“He’s got to be, right.” Sophie sips from her beer. “Or you are because the way he was looking at you at Irvings’ party told me he could not _wait_ to get you home.”

It’s new, Abbie thinks, how good sex is with Crane. She hasn’t had a lot of sex partners; she never actually had the time. Her first time had been her senior year of high school on football sheets with a guy she’d met at a party. She’d never seen him again. In college, it was all too far and in between to make much of a difference, to want to gab to girlfriends about. Her relationships—flings, really— with Danny while in Quantico and Luke after, had been better. They’d been around long enough to discover what she liked, what she preferred in bed. There had still been something lacking.

With Crane, it’s, well, it’s _amazing._ He’s so attentive, so in tune with the way her body works, the way her body wants. He’s alternately gentle and relentless, asking that she give while never denying her. He makes her body sing, is the most cliche way she can say it, and she cannot imagine sex so good with anyone else.

“Fine,” Abbie concedes. “If I tell y’all that the sex is good, will you leave me alone?”

“How good though?” Sophie lifts an eyebrow. “Like call your family to tell them you’re getting married after the first night, good?”

“Or just like quit your job and spend all your time in his bed, good?”

“Just?” Abbie can’t help it; she laughs then, loudly, the sound coming from her belly. “Can this conversation end?”

“Fine,” Cynthia agrees, coming down from her own laugh too. “I’ll take your recalcitrance as proof that you too are having cataclismic sex.”

“Too?” Abbie wonders.

“No, no,” Sophie shakes her head. “I don’t need to know anything about you and Frank. I think my ears might start bleeding.”

That just sends them into another fit of laughter.

“Let’s take these shots,” Abbie interrupts, holding up the glass filled with dark liquid.

“Oh yes, okay.” Cynthia picks her up. “What are we toasting to?”

“Good sex?” Sophie offers and Abbie gives her a playful roll of her eyes.

“And girls’ night.”

“Hear hear.”

They raise their glasses and _clink._

Crane is indeed awake and waiting for her when she comes wobbling into the apartment. He’s sitting on the couch watching television, though she’s too out of it to pay much attention to what. It’s not particularly late, only some time after 1, but all three of them had been too tired to stay out any longer. After they’d interrogated Abbie about Crane, the three had turned their focus to their drinks and the growing crowd of people below them. They’d had a couple more drinks, the liquor starting to flow smoothly through their blood streams, and then the music had begun to call to them. Abbie has always liked to dance; she loves music, the way it can take you so resolutely out of your head.

It’d been marvelous to let loose, to rock her hips and writhe against strangers to the music she’d grown up listening to. Sophie and Cynthia had been beside her, just as enthusiastic, just as into it. There’d been smiles and laughs all around, a type of partying that’s so starkly different from a jazz club or bars with live music.

In the back of her mind, though, she can admit that Crane was a constant thought. She’d danced with a few other men, her arms up, her ass pressed into the fronts of them, their hands holding lightly on to her hips. Their bodies didn’t align to the one she knows, the one she’s come to prefer. As much as he knows her body, Abbie knows his too. She is used to his height, the way he towers over her; she’s used to the firmness of his chest, how solid he is when he’s holding her. She knows his hands, _god, his hands_ , the nimble fingers, the way they strum her body, just the feel of him on her. It had all seemed so unfamiliar, these other men. It’s only been Crane for months, and nothing before him for more months, and she’s still so unsure how she’d thought what’d she had before had been any good.

So, she’d danced and she’d had fun, but she’d thought about Crane way more than she’d thought about much else, counting down the minutes until she’d been in his presence again.

Now, he sits in a pair of pajama pants and no shirt, a blanket thrown across his lap, an amused smile on his face. He picks up the remote beside him and lowers the volume on the television. 

“Hi,” she greets him. She doesn’t move away from the door right away, instead hanging her clutch and keys up on the wall hooks and leaning against the wall.

“Hello, Treasure.” Smile still in place, he tilts his head. “You okay.”

She nods, placing a hand on my belly. “My feet hurt though. I’m unsure if I can move any further.”

This gets her a full on grin, his teeth brilliant in his tan face, his eyes bright. 

“Do you need help?” he wonders.

She hums. “I feel like you’re laughing at me.”

“Of course not, love.”

But his grin widens even more as he stands up, tossing the blanket aside. His biceps flex as he does so, belly clenching. His feet are bare, his steps light on the dark hardwood floors. Abbie feels dizzy, watching him, and she knows that very little of that has anything to do with the alcohol still coursing through her body. He continues toward her until he is only a breath away. He is close enough that she can feel the heat coming off of his abs, the clean smell of him. Her breathing grows a bit more labored, but only because of the way he’s looking at her. It’s the look he always gives her, but this one is laden with some hidden meaning she cannot decipher in her slightly inebriated state. He’s close enough that she has to strain her neck to catch his eyes, those smiling, pretty blue eyes.

“Come on. Hop on.” He holds his hands out and it takes Abbie a whole minute to catch on.

“Wait. You’re gonna carry me?”

His nod is easy. “To wherever you want to go.”

Abbie shakes her head, trying not to focus on the way her cheeks warm. “You and your fucking words, Crane.”

“I’ve no clue what you mean.”

Abbie rolls her eyes, but asks again, “You’re really gonna carry me?”

He merely nods again.

She shakes her head, half smiling. And then she places her hands on Crane’s shoulders, the heels she’s still wearing making it so she doesn’t have to stretch to reach him. Her grips her waist and then she jumps into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. Her dress rides all the way up her thighs as he settles his big hands under her ass. She has so choice but to hold on, arms circling his neck.

“You know I’m only doing this because I’m drunk, right?”

He hums as he squeezes her, probably because he knows that's a load of crock shit. “Where to?”

“Bathroom.”

The man literally carries her through the front room and into her bathroom, where he sits her on the counter in the large space next to the sink. He’s seen her routine enough through their time together--at least in the past couple weeks--that as much as Abbie wants to be, she’s not surprised when he starts pulling things from her medicine cabinet. He grabs her package of makeup wipes, a brush and a headwrap.

He pulls a makeup wipe from the container and then holds his hand up for her face. She places her chin against his fingers and he holds her still as he gently cleans her face. Her eyes close briefly when he wipes her eyelids and then she watches him intently as he washes the already half eaten off lipstick from her mouth.

When he’s satisfied, he drops the wipe into the trash can beside her counter. He grabs her toothbrush and wets it, squirting it with toothpaste before he hands it to her. She brushes her teeth, spitting in the sink and wiping at her mouth when she’s done. Then, Crane exchanges her toothbrush for her vented brush, then, and the satin hair wrap she uses to wrap her hair up when it’s straightened. While she does that, he takes her shoes off. He grabs her right ankle first, long fingers touching firmly at her skin. He easily undoes the strap and slides her feet out, dropping the shoe to the floor. He goes for the other one, repeating the steps, almost carefully. When he’s done, he takes one of her feet into both of his hands. It looks so tiny and delicate next to his large, pale hands, but all of that is forgotten when he begins massaging her foot. He presses his thumbs into her instep and Abbie lets out an involuntary moan, head dropping back.

“God, that feels good, Crane.”

He smiles at her, but otherwise focuses on his work. She’s too tired to make much conversation, the drunkenness turning into exhaustion. She lets herself fall back until her head is resting on the mirror.

“I don’t understand how you’ve been single for so long,” she mutters, softly. “Or how your wife left you.”

He glances up to catch her eyes, his own expression questioning.

“Am I?” he wonders. 

Abbie tilts her head in confusion.

“Am I single?”

The question is sobering. She wants to answer that he’s not, because this is definitely not “single” behavior, not this domesticity or this quiet or this contentment she feels right now. But there is so much safety in the word “yes,” so much there to keep her from falling face first into heartbreak.

She cannot look him in the eye when she says, “this is whatever we want it to be.”

It feels like a cop out, even to her. He lets her have it, though, lets her continue to navigate this in uncertainty and hesitancy. Later, she’ll look back and recognize that this is when she should have said _something._ When she should have laid out her confusion. When she should have laid out her misgivings. When she should have laid out the sheer amount of fear that’s been running through her since the first time she laid out in her own bed beneath him. 

But she doesn’t. Because all he does is give her a smile--there is just a _touch_ of melancholy there-- and give her a firm nod. It’s a lifeline he’s extending to her, another one, next to the dozens he’s given her before, all painted in his special brand of sincerity.

“What happened with her?” Abbie wants to know. “Your wife?”

“She found someone else,” Crane answers plainly. “Someone who was enough for her.”

It’s difficult to explain the way she’s affected by his words. She wonders for a second if he thinks that’s true. She’s known him for less time than she’s known anyone else in her life right now and of those people, he’s the most steadfast. She says it all the time, but Crane is _kind,_ nice in ways she’s never seen before, considerate, loving. Of course he has faults: he’s a bit arrogant about his intelligence; he can be rude to people he finds uninteresting--or he plain doesn’t like; he’s sometimes _too_ considerate, too often caving at the whims of others. But, with that, he’s still hands down the best man she’s ever known and that he doesn’t think so, that his ex wife somehow didn’t see that… well, it makes her angry.

“She’s an idiot,” Abbie declares, and it’s worth it to see the smile on his face. That is always worth it.

“Maybe,” he says, dropping her feet. 

He spreads her knees enough that he can stand between them. He places his hands on the counter, on either side of her, and then he leans into her. He’s close enough that she can kiss him, so she does, pressing her mouth to his. She loves the taste of him, his cool lips, his warm tongue when he licks her mouth open. She arches into his chest, hands tipping behind his shoulders until she can curl her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. He eases his hands onto her hips, over onto the curve of her ass, where she finds he likes touching her the most. 

“I’m tired, Crane,” she mumbles, when he finally, slowly pulls away from her.

His chuckle is a deep rumble against her chest.”Let’s go to bed, Treasure.”

He picks her up again, and he carries her to his room. They’re both quiet as she strips out of her dress and puts on a t-shirt that Crane gives her, leaving the silky gold material lying on his bedroom floor. He turns off the lights, submerging them in darkness as they slide into his bed, Crane reaching for her. She maneavers herself so that she is draped half on top of him, her head on his chest. He settles one arm at the small of her back. Abbie sighs deeply, snuggling into him. She is warm, satisfied, _cared for._ And maybe still a little drunk, which is probably to blame for what she tells him next. 

“You are enough, Crane,” she mumbles, eyes closing as she begins to drift. “You are far more than I deserve.”

  
  


When she wakes up, it is still the middle of the night. She can tell because there is but a hint of the moon streaming through the curtains, the rest of the room dark and quiet. She’s obviously moved in her sleep; Crane is no longer pressed against her, spread out on the other side of the bed. She gets up to use the bathroom, quickly peeing, and washing her hands.

Crane is awake, when she comes back. He’s laid out on his back near the middle of the bed, his arms folded behind his head, blue eyes brilliant in the darkness. She closes the door softly behind her and moves to the bed. She kneels at the edge and then crawls forward on her hands and knees until she’s straddling him. She settles herself right down on his crotch, lowering herself over where he’s already a little hard in his boxers.

He waits for her signal, watches her, eyes flitting to where her thighs bracket his hips and back up to catch her eyes again. He licks his lips slowly, the simple move making her ache a little, making her throb. They don’t speak. Abbie grabs the hem of his shirt she’s wearing and pulls it over her head, tossing it onto the floor. She’s naked before him, except for the tiny scrap of fabric covering her sex, and she takes in his gaze. She feels pretty like this, when he’s looking at her like this, even with her hair wrapped up and her eyes still a little droopy from sleep.

“Touch me,” she whispers into the night, cutting into the silence. He does, pulling his hands from behind his head, and reaching out to her. This reminds her of their first time, his slow, searching strokes. He touches at her face first, fingers tracing along her jaw, stopping momentarily to press his thumb to her lips. 

He moves lower, down over her throat, squeezing gently at the base in the way he knows makes her eyes flutter closed, makes her thighs tighten against him. He tips down the center of her chest, bypassing her breasts, and the inattention makes her feel needier, makes her nipples pebble in anticipation. He goes, instead, for her scars, the reminders of past hurts. He traces the jagged cut etched into the skin of her belly, edges around the oddly shaped burn mark that finds its home on her upper thigh. 

There are more, tiny nicks, a bullet wound, skin scraped in pursuit of criminals. Crane knows them all, and he does his best to touch every one, his fingers like stitches or aloe or something else that makes more sense, that shows its like healing, his hands touching and caressing and massaging those parts of her. She warms under his touch, melts, her body languid and liquid and he hasn’t even gotten to any of the really good parts yet, the softer, wetter parts.

She lets him idle though, because she’s so sure now that she’ll never tire of his hands on her. He holds her by her lower back as he lifts her to lie beneath him, pulling her scrap of panties off of her as he does so. And then he continues touching her, everywhere. He traces her ankles, rubbing the length of her calves, tickling behind her knees until she’s breathing hard and squirming against him. He makes patterns on her sides, his touch lighter there, barely there caresses that still make her dig her feet into the mattress, and widen her knees, and thrust her hips against his.

When he finally-- _finally_ \--touches her where he needs him, it’s at the same time that he bends and closes his mouth around her nipple. She nearly shoots up off of the bed, a long, low keen coming from somewhere in the back of her throat. It’s the loudest sound either of them have made at all, and it’s stark in the quiet room. He adds another finger to the one that’s already caressing into her, up to his knuckles in her slick. He strums her, painstakingly slow and easy, tongue laving at her breasts, free hand holding her still with a hard grip at her waist. 

She doesn’t know how long he does this for, touching her, tonguing her, sinking her into the mattress, but it feels like hours to Abbie. She’s been brought to the brink of orgasm but kept from letting go so often that she wants to cry, biting at her lips every time he strums, pinches, rubs against her clit, head thrown back when he does it as he nips at the skin of her throat.

“Crane,” she tries to whisper, breath catching. “If you don’t fuck me now, I promise I will murder you.”

His chuckle is a deep, dirty thing, and he moves his head to blink at her. His eyes are the dark navy that she loves, lids lowered in arousal.

“Anything you want, Treasure,” he says, and he reaches down to pull his boxers from his body. She looks down at him. He’s so hard it looks painful, precum already leaking from his head. They’ve done this a couple of times without the barrier of protection and when he gazes at her, questioning, caressing his own dick, spreading his own slick down his shaft, she nods, so gone that she really thinks she might die if he’s not inside her.

She’ll think of him the next day, all day, every time she walks, any time she moves. When she’s typing through reports, she’ll think of the first slide of him inside her, her walls clutching him, pulling him in. As she returns emails, she’ll picture how he’d stroked her, one of his hands holding her wrist above her head, the other holding her neck to keep her steady. She’ll think of this most often, his bruising kisses slow and powerful, mimicking his body moving inside of her. She’ll think of her legs clenched around his waist, so tight that his strokes are a little shallower because they’re a little close, and he has to move in a way that he brushes against her clit every. single. time his hips meet hers. She likes it here, where he elicits these feelings, her own voice in her head as she recalls moaning out, “ _god, Crane; baby, this is so...ohhh.”_ She doesn’t know how she gets through her day without pushing her hands down her pants and fingering herself to the memories, of him holding on to her hips until there were faint marks that still live there, of kissing him, a long slow deep kiss, as he fucks her into orgasm, biting gently at her bottom lips as he follows her over the edge.

And when she slides back into bed beside him again, she’ll remember the words he whispered as he wrapped his long arms around her, pulling her to nestle into him. “You’re exactly what I deserve, Abigail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less than three months this time! This chapter ended up being far too long so I split them into two chapters and the other is already up! I did have a lot of trouble getting through them, though so I hope they're worth wait.
> 
> So drop a comment (or a kudos) here and go ahead and get started on the next chapter.
> 
> Happy (or not so happy) Reading!
> 
> Elle <3


	7. III.iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Abigail.  
> Poor Crane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.  
> (Also, make sure you’ve read chapter 6! I’ve posted both at the same time.)

As Abbie had known it would, the cases come back in with a vengeance. A cross country murder spree finds her team in Baltimore, after a string of murders up the coast from Florida. Only days after girls’ night, they are dispatched to Maryland and they are there for five long days until they apprehend the killer, a 40-year old man they find with an almost victim in the trunk of his car.

It’s a difficult case. Women around Abbie’s age were going missing for several days before their mutilated bodies were found spread out in the middle of city parks. The women were all considered low-risk; they were school teachers and counselors and one even ran her own veterinary clinic. This really gets to Abbie, that children had been used to lure these women in; that some man had taken the maternal and protective instincts of these women and perverted it, used it to hurt and kill them.

She’d been interested in becoming a police officer since she met August Corbin when she was 16 years old. She’d never been too fond of cops, or even social workers for that matter, their presence always indicating something bad in her life. But he’d been different. He’d been kind and patient as much as he had presented as no-nonsense and that dichotomy intrigued Abbie. It was why she gave Criminal Justice a chance when she’d gone to college. 

That field had been life changing for her. Had shown her the veritable science behind studying criminals, had made her see that law enforcement could be more than just racist men with guns and unwarranted vendettas. She’d managed to complete her degree in nearly half the time, (taking as many classes as she could and still work, taking classes all summer) immediately joining the force. She’d been a cop for only a few years, under the intense tutelage of Corbin before deciding to join the FBI.

She’s just on the other side of thirty and in the nearly four years that she’s been doing this, she’s seen some of the most horrible shit imaginable. All of the personal loss she’s experienced had seemed so harrowing, until she had to look in the eyes of a 50 year old woman to explain why her son has been cut into pieces before being dumped in a river; it had all seemed so overwhelmingly hard until she had to explain to a young father that he’d never see his wife again, that she’d been raped and beaten all because another man had found her hair too similar to someone who’d spurned him.

It culminates. It mixes and it simmers until it wells up and bubbles over, the agonizing reality of death. It surrounds her, Abbie realizes, as she grabs an Uber back to the hotel the team is staying at. They’re celebrating another victory with drinks at a local bar and Abbie can’t seem to gather up the energy to join them. It’s only been a few short years, the start of a promising career as Abbie is so often told, but, quite frankly, she doesn’t know how much longer she can do this. Those days away had shown her, in a quick turnabout, what life could be like without all this, with a nice man and an ordinary job, and friends who don’t feel like reminders of what she’s lost.

The ride back to the hotel is quiet. It’s a Thursday night, but the crowd in Baltimore is rowdy, ready for a night out. She passes restaurant patios overflowing with the after work crowd and, for the first time in a long time, wonders what it might have felt to be like them: to have a job where her mistakes wouldn’t end in another person’s death; to be able to spend afternoons drinking with friends and not worrying over catching evil; to fall in love and not have the sting of loss weigh so heavily on everything she does. Too often lately, she’s been down this road of what-if and she figures it’s time to truly figure some things out.

It’s after 9 when she’s dropped off at the hotel. There, she kicks her shoes off at the door, and immediately goes into the bathroom. The hot shower she takes is long and hot and it helps to melt away some of the tension in her body. After, she lotions up and wraps her body in the fluffy white robe, before calling out for pizza and opening her laptop to watch Netflix. 

She’s three slices of pizza and an hour and a half into her mini-marathon of _World’s Most Extraordinary Homes_ when the FaceTime app on her computer pops up. Crane’s contact photo, a picture of him she’d snapped while he was whittling away at a piece of wood, covers her screen and she blinks in surprise.

Whatever she and Crane have become, this is an anomaly. He’s texted her once or twice since she’s been in Maryland to check in, but never before had they held lengthy conversations over the phone and she’s definitely never FaceTimed with him. Curious and missing him (this she can admit while she’s hundreds of miles away), she hits answer.

She can tell that he’s in his bedroom, his headboard acting as his backdrop. He’s how she loves to see him, with his hair wavy from his shower and shirtless, his broad shoulders on display. He’s wearing his glasses, which lets Abbie know he was probably reading before he called her.

“Hello,Treasure,” he greets her softly, giving her the hint of a smile.

There is something slightly off, she notices, about his expression. He looks tired, but also a little sad. It is not a look she’s used to seeing on him. In the short couple of years they’ve known each other, Crane has always been a positive force in her life. He gets upset very rarely and has a, quite frankly, annoying ability to always see sense and reason, to see the good in any situation. As much as Abbie likes to pride herself on her logic, on her ability to stay in control, she’s recognizing that that ability is firmly allocated to her work-self. Personally, she is up and down and all over the place, and to see her only stable presence look so shaken throws her.

“Hi there, Crane,” she says, just as softly. 

He runs the long fingers of one of his hands through his silky brown hair and then pushes his glasses back up his nose.

“You look comfortable,” he notices and she looks down at her in the robe.

“Yeah,” she rubs her hand down the fluffy material. “Long day. Long couple days.”

“Hard case?” he wonders and there is something in the way he says it, curious and present and _attentive,_ and for some reason, it makes Abbie nearly want to cry.

She just nods instead. “Yeah.”

“Children or women?” Crane asks.

She blinks at him through her computer screen.”What do you mean?”

“All of your cases affect you,” he tells her, “but when they involve either children or women, you are particularly affected.”

(Later, when he’s gone and she’s sitting back in her room, staring blankly at a book whose words are but an inky blur, she’ll think that this is the moment it officially all falls apart: the half-screwed bolts holding her together, the chains keeping her heart firmly inside her chest, the love she’s been hiding and ignoring and altogether refusing to admit to.)

“I-” she swallows, takes another sip of her wine. “I didn’t know you knew that about me.” her chuckle is self-deprecating. “I don’t think I knew that about me.”

“I know a lot about you, Abigail.”

She only knows to nod, because that’s the truth. Crane knows her, like no one else does, like no one else besides Jenny. And, she thinks, he might know her more than she did. To Jenny, Abbie was always a big sister, sometimes a mother, a confidante, someone to make sure she stayed true to what they had planned for themselves. Even when Jenny had grown up and they were more open, there was still that barrier than could never seem to cross. Crane knows Abbie as something, _someone_ , different. She’s been many people to him: Agent Mills, roommate, friend, lover, _more_. In each of these instances, he’s done all he could to be who she needs in the moment. Even now, when he’ s hundreds of miles away, he can tell what she's thinking, how she’s feeling. She thinks she wants to try to be that, for him.

“So I see,” she murmurs aloud. She pushes the pizza box further down on the bed and places her computer on the other pillow. Then, she lays down on the bed, pulling the computer screen down so that she can look at him better. “I don’t want to talk about my case, though. I want to talk about why you called.”

One of his eyebrow lifts. “Am I not allowed to call you?”

“Of course, you can,” she says. “But you look a little off.”

“Off?”

“Sad,” she tries.

He gives her something of a smile, the distress still pulling at the corners. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

“But what if I want to concern myself with it?”

He stares at her through the computer screen for a long time. It’s a while before he says anything, so long that it makes Abbie nervous. 

“Of course you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want,” she hurries to say, when it seems like he won’t speak.

“No, that’s not it,” he says. “Of course that’s not it.”

“So tell me what’s on your mind, Crane.”

He runs his hand through his hair, and lets out a heavy sigh. “It is only my father. I’m told he had a mild heart attack yesterday.”

“Oh my God, Crane! I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, Abigail.” He tugs at his hair again. “He’s doing well. We spoke earlier, but it was still frightening. To realize the mortality of one’s parents.”

“I know that all too well,” she responds. Crane immediately looks contrite, eyes widening.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Abigail. I…”

“No, no.” She shakes her head to interrupt him. “You have nothing to apologize for. My parents died a long time ago. I had my confrontation with their mortality already. This is yours. You don’t have to feel bad for feeling the way you do.”

“I appreciate that really.” She watches as he moves to get comfortable. “I don’t think I want to talk about it however. Not yet.”

“Alright.” She’s a bit disappointed; he’s never been hesitant to talk to her before. But parents are different, she supposes, and she knows that like she knows nothing else.

“So how was your day?”

Crane’s amused grin is back, his melancholy taking a backseat. “You want to know about my day?”

“Well, you don’t want to talk about your dad. I don’t want to talk about this case. So tell me what you did today?”

“Alright.” He inclines his head. “Well, I didn’t do much, not really. Had my morning tea on the porch. Outlined a new syllabus for the coming term. Had dinner and drinks with a few colleagues.”

That last part catches her attention, and she latches on. “Which colleagues?”

Crane stares at her blankly, and she wants to laugh at how much the look reminds her of herself. She’s noticed it, here and there, the small glimpses of her mannerisms in him, some of her commentary, her expressions. Before, it’d cause her pause, the idea that she’s getting so close to someone that they’d be able to feed off of one another. But it’s cute, she decides instead, that she’s made an impression on someone like Crane.

“Which colleagues, Crane?”

“You know,” he says. “I shouldn’t, but I do enjoy this look on you.”

Abbie rolls her eyes. “I’m not jealous.”

“Right.”

“I just think it’d paint the full picture if I knew _all_ of the parts of the story, ya know.”

Crane raises one bushy eyebrow. “Is this how you interrogate your suspects?”

“Oh you got jokes?”

“Merely a question.”

“Hardy har har.”

He chuckles, the sound deep in his throat. “Nothing to worry about. Just a couple of the gentlemen from the business building. Our very own boys’ night, if you will.”

“Oooh, let me guess. Y’all went somewhere where you ate steaks and played pool and drank whiskey out of fancy glasses while you talked about women?”

“Accurate guess.”

“I knew it. Men are such a cliche.” She laughs as she says it, so he knows she’s only kidding. He nods his head in concedence, and then, 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “you aren’t here to take care of _me_ this time around.”

She bites at her lip. “You don’t really look like you need taking care of.”

“We can all use a little taking care of,” he says, and it’s a message there, one she nods to, to let him know she hears him.

They talk for hours into the night. She tells him about some of the antics of her fellow agents over the course of their work in Maryland, the late nights over takeout, exhaustion making them all slap happy. Crane tells her about his night out with “the boys,” two men who teach some aspect of business administration that he’d met through some interdepartmental mingling. They’d found out that they’d visited some of the same places--both men travel abroad with the school each year--as well as shared a love for home improvement television shows.

It’s like their earlier days, when they’d found friendship in shared meals and television, when they’d just talked because they could, because it’d felt nice to have someone listen, to have someone who didn’t show her pity. Except now it is peppered with flirtation and innuendos, with not so subtle teasing and a conversation that leads to Abbie dropping her robe and showing Crane how much her nipples have hardened by just listening to the sound of his laugh and watching his long fingers play in his beard; it leads to those same fingers tipping down his chest and into his pants, where he pulls himself out (he’s so long, so thick, it nearly makes Abbie salivate) and strokes and strokes and _strokes_. 

She falls asleep some time around 2 in the morning, with her body still sticky from where she’d touched herself to the sound of his voice whispering “fuck your fingers, Treasure, taste yourself for me,” her head planted on her pillow where she can still see him, his “I miss you, love,” the last thing she hears before everything goes dark.

************

Abbie will still contend that as much as she is not surprised that it happened this way, she certainly didn’t mean for it to. Only a few days after she’s back from Maryland, her world upends.

It’s all a blur. Well, no, that isn’t true. If she lets herself, she can remember every single detail, every look, every smile, every _frown_ , every time Crane’s voice dipped in controlled anger. It’s funny, she thinks, how history finds new and inventive ways to repeat itself, reminding Abbie that there is a reason she’d retreated, a reason she had kept the reminders of her lost family so firmly at the forefront of everything she did--and didn’t--do. Crane was always going to leave; it was just a matter of when. And why.

It starts with Luke and what a fucking joke that is, the world giving her another reminder that good things are not for her. On a too hot Thursday afternoon, she sees Luke as she is walking back into the office from her lunch break, cold brew coffee in hand. She knows that he sometimes does some consulting between their agency and the Westchester County Police, where Abbie had done a couple years on the force. Still, she hasn’t seen him since their random meeting at the jazz club and is surprised to see him there.

He smiles when he sees her, slowing down to talk to her. “Mills,” he says in greeting.

She sips from her disposable coffee mug before responding, “Morales,” smiling back at him too.

She takes a moment to assess him, his perfectly fit body in a pair of dark pants and a white shirt, gun and handcuffs she’s sure, at his back. There is nothing about Abbie that denies Luke’s attractiveness. She’s always thought he was good looking--that kept her hanging around his bed for months too long in their months long relationship--and despite his shortcomings (and her own inability to commit) he’d been thoughtful until the end, someone who had made her smile.

“You never called me about that drink,” he says, a hand to his hip.

“Oh, I didn’t know I was actually supposed to.”

He shrugs, smiles, a look he knows gets women to fall all over him. “What about today? After your shift? Have a drink with me.”

“I really shouldn’t,” she hesitates.

“Come on, Mills.” His smile deepens. “Just a drink between old friends.”

“Fine,” she relents. “But no funny business.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he grins and she knows he means the opposite.

She watches him walk away, aware that this is all probably a horrible idea.

It is, a horrible idea. They meet at a bar downtown, one of the places that law enforcement officials like to frequent. She hadn’t gone home to change, this isn’t that kind of drink, but she’d kept her jacket and equipment locked in her car and taken her hair down from it’s ponytail, the still straight tresses brushing against the soft gray t-shirt she’s wearing. She adds a bit more mascara, a touch more lipstick, and then she ventures into the bar, adjusting her eyes to the dark room.

She finds Luke at a table far to the back, a spot that had been _theirs_ when they’d dated. He’s already got two beers in front of her, and she knows when she sits down, it’ll be one of her favorite local brews. She shakes her head as she sits down, dropping her phone face down on the table, exchanging a smile with the handsome man sitting across from her.

“I was worried you wouldn’t meet me, Mills,” he says, sliding the beer over to her. 

“I am a busy woman,” she supplies. 

He raises his glass to her. “You always have been.”

She takes a sip of her beer after she taps her glass to his.

“So why’d you want this drink, Luke?”

He chuckles. “She wastes no time, does she?”

“I don’t know what you expect. We haven’t seen each other in over a year.”

“We saw each other a couple months ago,” he counters.

“Yes. In passing, at a club.”

He shrugs good-naturedly. “Counts.”

“Really?”

“Nah.” He grins. “We didn’t get to talk.” .

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Abbie says. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Just to talk. I’ve been thinking about you.” He leans on the table, fingering the top of his beer glass. “I’ve been wondering how you’ve been.”

Abbie takes a long pull from her beer. She’s skeptical, but she’s always skeptical, and this is just a beer with Luke.

“I’ve been okay,” she tells him. “I’ve been pretty good actually.”

“Yeah? With all the hot shot FBIing?”

Abbie lifts an eyebrow. “FBIing?”

“It worked in my head,” Luke laughs.

They fall into an easy flow of conversation. Talking had never been where they struggled, and they’re back into talking about their jobs and some of the more outrageous cases they’ve seen lately. Their conversation is peppered with jokes from way back when and a couple more rounds of beers. She’ll admit that it’s easier to talk to him about work. Of course Crane understands, but it’s different when it’s a lived experience, and even working for the county, Luke has lived some experiences.

They hang out for a couple hours and it’s after 8 when Luke drops an arm over her shoulder and leads her out of the bar. He’s not tall like Crane is, and he’s a lot more muscular too, so his arm weighs a little bit heavier on her and unfamiliar in the way that she only knows Crane’s touch any more. She’d had fun, though. Luke could always turn on the charm when he wanted to, and he did tonight, making her laugh and shake her head in equal measure.

They’re parked on opposite sides and Abbie insists that she doesn’t need to be walked home so they say their farewells standing on the sidewalk in front of the bar. Not a lot of people are out and the sun only just starting to set, giving the night a silent sort of feel. He spreads his arms for a hug, and she obliges, wrapping her arms around his neck as he pulls her close.

If you ask her later, Abbie will tell you that the only reason she leans into the spontaneous kiss is because she wants to be sure. She knows (deep, deep down, where no one--maybe not even her--has gone) that what she feels for Crane is staggering, and it is overwhelming. But it is also _real_ because it’s Crane and it’s his fingers and his grin and his mouth that speaks too softly and too openly and too lovingly. Still, she wants to make sure it’s not a fluke and she can think of no way else to do that.

When she starts to pull away from his hug, Luke holds on to her, catching her face in his hand. It is reminiscent of when they were dating, the move practiced and nearly flawless, so she knows he’s going to kiss her before he does. He presses his mouth against hers, firmly, as if he still has the right. He tastes only faintly of beer, but his lips are as soft as she remembers. It is a good kiss, for all intents and purposes, firm and purposeful without being greedy. But she feels no spark, nothing tightening in her belly, no quiver in her thighs. She doesn’t even like the taste of him any longer.

“Luke,” she says, stepping back, shaking her head, wiping at her mouth. “We can’t...I can’t... This was just a drink. I’m seeing someone. And he’s…”

Her voice trails off because—in addition to the fact that she’s starting to ramble—she’s still figuring it all out in her head, what he truly is, and she can’t express that to anyone else. But she doesn’t have to, because he can tell. She doesn’t know how, but Luke tilts his head as he appraises her, wondering, and then something clicks.

“You love this guy,” he asks, but it reads more as a statement.

“I—“ she starts but doesn’t know if she can finish it until he’s sure. She merely shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Wow,” he mutters, as if he’s shook. “I gotta admit, Mills. I never thought I’d see the day.”

The words feel faintly like an attack, but it’s a valid assessment of where she’s always been, half out of a relationship, ready to run at a moment’s notice.

“Yeah, me either,” she agrees, running a hand down her face. “But he’s good to me, in a way I didn’t know I needed.”

He watches her for several long moments, pushing his hands down into his pockets, eyeing her intently.

“If that’s true, then I’m happy for you. Really.”

“Thanks, Luke.” She looks down at her watch, checking the time. “I should really get home.”

“Of course, Abbie.”

He gives her another smile and then he’s gone down the street and Abbie turns towards where she’s parked her car. 

************

The energy is different, when she walks into the house. She can tell. There is nothing on in the front room and only a light is coming from the hallway. This clues her off first. The house is never quiet like this; there is always either the television going or the bluesy sounds of their music. There is nothing, only the silence that is far too loud and a living room that feels far too empty.

She goes in search of Crane. There’s no food on the stove and no sign of him in the kitchen so she walks down the hall. His bedroom door is open, a soft light spilling out, and she stands in the doorway. He’s still dressed as if he’d been out all day, but he’s lost his shoes, and is sitting in the chair in the corner of his room. There’s a book open on his lap, but he isn’t actually reading, instead staring off into space, his right knee juggling as he thinks.

“Hi, Crane,” Abbie greets.

He stops shaking when she speaks, but it’s a long, drawn out moment before he turns to her fully. The look on his face is one Abbie never wants to see again. She can’t read it exactly, there’s far too much to take in, but his mouth is pinched and his eyes are hard, icy like gray steel.

“Can I ask you something?” he wonders, and his voice is more somber than she’s ever heard coming from him, especially when he’s speaking to her.

She shivers, cold running through her. She can just tell that there is no way for her to get out of whatever it is he wants to talk about. It must be months in the making, she thinks.

“Sure.” She walks further into the room, but she doesn’t move any closer to him. She stands near the dresser, unsure of where to put her hands, unsure of why she feels so sick so suddenly.

“Who is he?”

There are a couple of different routes that Abbie considers taking, the most prominent of which is pretending that she has no idea what he’s talking about. But it seems insulting, after everything, so she just says,

“He’s an old boyfriend.”

That is probably not the best phrasing she could have given him, not once she sees the way his face falls. He reaches up to massage his beard, looking absently around the room before locking eyes with her. He doesn’t look at her for long, though, because then his gaze is flirting away from her again, and Abbie doesn’t know how she ever made it before without him looking at her.

“Imagine, if you will,” he starts, tone sober and stilted, “getting work done at a coffee shop. And you’re thinking about the woman you’re seeing, about what she might want for dinner, about what film you might watch later. And then you get up, excited to go to the market because you love cooking for her.” He tilts his head, takes in a breath, slides his tongue slowly over his mouth. “But then you step outside and you look across the street. And there she is, kissing another man.”

“Crane,” she speaks, taking a step. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“No?” he questions. He gets up, standing tall and imposing, but he stays near his chair. “Well then what was it, Abigail?”

“Nothing,” she insists. “Literally nothing. Just drinks, catching up.”

“But you kissed him!” He doesn’t shout it, not so much as it’s way too quiet in the room and Abbie feels as if her heart has stopped beating. Crane doesn’t get mad, not like this. And oh, he _is_ mad. She can see it in the way the tension almost shakes his body, in the way he stands with his fists by his side. In the way that he still won’t fully look at her.

“Is that where you were going?” he wants (maybe needs) to know, “when you came home late? When you didn’t climb into my bed?”

“What?” The accusation bristles. “How dare you?”

“How dare I?” There is nothing funny about his laugh. “How dare I what? Question you? Ask you what the bloody hell is going on?” He takes several steps toward her, but then he rethinks, stopping abruptly. She watches his jaws clench. “I can’t do that though, can I? Because it means talking about feelings and god forbid you are the tiniest bit vulnerable.”

“Crane…” it’s a warning as much as anything she’s ever said to him, but he’s too far gone to heed it.

“I’m just trying to understand here.” He scratches absently at his beard, probably needing something else to do with his hands. “I have to fuck you to get you to go to the supermarket with me, but he? He gets to have you in the bloody street!”

“What do you want me to say, Crane?” She yells out her frustration.

“What do I want you to say, Abigail? I want to know what this is. What he is.”

She is not prepared for this, this onslaught of _emotion._ She knows that what he’s saying is valid; is surprised that he’s gone months without saying it. But logic doesn’t work here. Understanding hasn’t yet found a place in where she’s muddled, where she’s broken and mangled. Luke is so obviously nothing to her, and she knows that she only let the kiss go on for so long because she needed to see. She needed to know. But can she tell Crane that? Can she tell Crane that she’d agreed to drinks because it is simpler with Luke. It had felt good (really, just for the moment) to talk to him for a while because he is someone who does not take up the head space—or the heart space, for that matter— that Crane does.

Everything with Crane is always so charged, intense and powerful and dynamic, that it all makes her stumble. She’s been confused since she hopped into bed with him the first time, a stuttering, blubbering mess using sex with her roommate—her goddamn friend—to abate her own loneliness. She knows that it’s never been fair to him, taking what he’s so freely given her and putting up barriers, wooden stilts and barbed wire fences, any time he attempted to dig even the tiniest bit deeper.

“It was just drinks, Crane,” she says again, because she still doesn’t know what else to say. “Nothing more. That kiss was a mistake. Heat of the moment.”

“Ah, heat of the moment. Of course.” He nods as if it all makes sense, as if he is not surprised by what she’s telling him.

“Is that what I’ve been? The heat of the moment?”

She stumbles back, “Of course not. We’ve been doing this for fucking months, Crane.”

“Right. And you still can’t bloody tell me what’s going on.” He throws his hand up. “We are ‘whatever we want to be,’ right? That’s what you said, isn’t it? But that meant nothing. I was merely a warm body to you.”

“That’s not true.” 

“No?

“Of course not. You are…” she flounders here, grows frustrated. It’s him, because this isn’t how she saw tonight, not his anger and _his_ frustration, and the way he still won’t fucking look at her. It’s her too, though, mostly her. She hates being this, this scared, panicking, petrified shell of a person, and even when she knows—goddamnit does she know—that she wants more than this, she cannot figure out how to be anything but.

“You’re...you’re _Crane_ ,” she tells him, because in her head he is, _Crane,_ italicized in meaning and in nuance.

He does not see it that way.

“Yes,” he barks. “Crane. You can’t even call me by my first name, Abigail. How am I supposed to mean anything to you?”

Her eyes snap up to his.

“I,” she tries, but nothing else comes out because _god_ , how do you tell someone you’ve spent the last few months avoiding that they’re suddenly _everything_? The words don’t come—they don’t come they don’t come they—Abbie feels like she’s choking. 

Crane nods, as if it’s something he’d been expecting all along. He turns around and picks up the wallet that had been sitting on his bedside table.

“Crane,” she tries, but he ignores her in favor of slipping back into his shoes.

“Crane,” she tries again. As he brushes past her, she attempts to grab at his arm, but he flinches at her touch and she’s no choice but to drop her hands. She doesn’t follow after him; she just waits until she hears the front door close behind him, her body frozen in sudden terror.

Abbie doesn’t sleep much that night, waiting for him to come back home. She doesn’t know what she wants to say to him, but she knows she can’t leave it like this. Crane is—no, _Ichabod_ is the only good thing that’s happened to her in so long and she doesn’t want to, _she can’_ t, go wallowing back in the misery she’d been living in.

Her phone buzzes on her bedside table and she rushes to grab it, hoping to see Crane’s picture pop up. But it’s Cynthia, her face smiling on the lock screen, and Abbie just presses ignore before turning her phone off altogether, too anxious for something she knows won’t happen.

She finally does doze off sometime around 2 or 3, her sleep fitful and restless, characterized by tossing and turning and a dream where she’s standing in a field alone, screaming and yelling for someone to find her, and no one ever hearing her, no one ever looking for her at all.

When she wakes, sometime before the sun even rises, she pads into the kitchen, knowing she’ll need a full pot of coffee if she wants to even try to make it through the day unscathed.

Something tells her Crane isn’t in the house and that is confirmed when she spots a folded piece of stationery near the coffee pot. Her movements are slow, because she knows what it says before she even picks it up, and if she moves slowly, maybe it’ll give the words time to change themselves.

It doesn’t work.

_Agent Mills,_

_I’ve decided that it is best we take some time apart. I will be in Scotland for a few days, visiting family. When I return, I’ll arrange to have my things removed from the house. Included is a check to cover my portion of the rent until year’s end._

_I wish you the very best, and I do hope that you find whatever it is that you’re looking for. Truly._

_Ichabod Crane_

  
  


Abbie is unsure of how long she stares at that letter until she sinks to the floor, crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, y'all. The penultimate chapter!  
> This was a goddamn doozy, ya hear me. Things had to get a little bit worse before they can (hopefully) get a little better. It's an unfortunate way of the world.
> 
> I hope you don't hate me. I told y'all this was an angst fest. Lol.
> 
> Tell me what you think! The comments on the chapter before last really made my heart sing and I want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> We've got one more chapter and I hope you'll stick around for that. I'm ging to visit my family (as safely as I possibly can) in a couple weeks and I really want to get this final chapter up before I do. So I hope to be back soon.
> 
> Until next time,  
> Elle <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working out some of my own feelings in this fic.  
> It'll be a lot of angst and a bunch of smut.  
> I think you'll be pleased with the way it progresses, though.  
> I hope you stick with me.  
> (As usual, typos are my own.)


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